


Small Things

by sternenblumen



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Angst, Canon-Typical Violence, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Whump
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-01
Updated: 2019-01-05
Packaged: 2019-10-02 04:09:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 23,167
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17257304
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sternenblumen/pseuds/sternenblumen
Summary: d'Artagnan has found a new home and purpose in the Musketeers. But there might be some things that are wrong. They're only small things, though.Porthos is good at noticing small things.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Happy new year 2019!
> 
> This is my first Musketeers fanfic - I hope you'll like it! As it's the longest fic I've ever written (over 20k which isn't long for a Muskie fic but for me, it is), I will post it in several chapters, most likely 3. It's finished, though, I'm only doing some editing as I go along.
> 
> Obligatory disclaimer: The Musketeers belong to Alexandre Dumas and the BBC, I'm just playing with them. As I don't have a beta, any mistakes you might find belong to me.

They were small things, really.

d'Artagnan knew his life was not turning out too bad. He had come to Paris and almost killed an innocent man for his father's death, but then he had not only been forgiven for the whole sordid affair but had even been granted the friendship of the man he had tried to kill, and of his two brothers. Even Captain Tréville seemed to be appreciative of his talents, especially after the whole thing with Vadim, and so he was allowed to stay and train with the Musketeers, even if he had no money to buy a commission, no one to sponsor him or even enough money to pay his way as a recruit. The Captain had insinuated that him fulfilling his duties alongside his friends and maybe putting in some extra work around the garrison would pay for his equipment and training at least in part, and so he was happy to muck out the stables or chop vegetables for Serge after his duties were done.

Word had it that Tréville was from Gascony himself, and he sometimes heard it in a turn of phrase or something else that made his breath catch at a sudden feeling of familiarity in the man's presence but he hadn't asked the Captain about where in the region he had come from, not sure if this wasn't too personal a question to ask your commanding officer – even if he was not officially a Musketeer – and afraid to discover that the Captain's support was out of some sentimentality towards their shared home or people he might have known back there, not earned on his own merits.

Also, the thought of talking to someone who knew Gascony just hurt too much on days when the buildings of Paris crowded in too closely and he longed for the wind rippling the tops of the grain on the fields like waves. There was barely any wind in the narrow streets of the city.

Not that he talked to anyone who did not know of Gascony about those bouts of homesickness either, of course. It didn't matter.

He was not destitute – he had seen poverty, at home and even more so in the streets of Paris and the Court of Miracles. He had written to his father's right-hand man; Phillipe had agreed to keep things running on the farm until he could make a final decision on how to proceed with it, and he now received a small stipend every month. It was enough to pay for his lodgings at the Bonacieux', keep himself fed and keep up appearances by giving Constance a few coins when she darned and sewed up what little clothes he owned. He did his best to swallow his Gascon pride whenever Athos or Aramis paid for all their wine at the tavern at night, knowing the others would have had the coin for it, or whenever Porthos let him win at cards and grumbled good-naturedly about “Must be your lucky day, lad”. He might be young and inexperienced but he wasn't stupid. But they meant well, so he let it go without a challenge.

He hadn't forgotten about his father's original reason for coming to Paris, but after his passing, he did not see how to help his people. His father had been an experienced, well-respected member of their community, and his words carried weight even beyond it, so there had been hope in him petitioning the king. In comparison, what could an orphaned farm boy hope to achieve? So he had written back home, advising the other leaders in the community to send someone else, hoping the next man to come to Paris would have more luck on the road and with the king. And maybe, when he had gained his commission and made a name for himself in the regiment, he might still be able to help, even if this day seemed a long way off.

And then there was Constance. He knew he was skirting a dangerous edge at times, even if he told himself she was just a friend. He could not have chosen a better woman to fall unconscious at her feet on that first day in Paris. Constance, sweet, determined, caring, fiery, practical and mischievous Constance, so many contradictions wrapped into a lovely package … and married, so married. He was sure that she did not feel much love for her husband but she held her vows sacred, and he couldn't help but admire her steadfastness.

All in all, d'Artagnan had a lot on his mind. That's why little things didn't even register first.

He knew you could never been liked by everyone. He had learned that lesson a long time ago, and why should Paris be different than a small town in Gascony in this regard, especially when you were still young, bull-headed, with a bit of a temper and the inability to keep your mouth shut when you really, really should sometimes? So he had Athos, Porthos and Aramis' friendship, he got along well with Serge and had found a younger friend in the stable boy Jacques, and most of the other Musketeers were friendly enough. So what if there were a few who turned up their nose at him, whether at his inexperience, his mended and darned clothes, or maybe the way he still felt like a country bumpkin when he was surprised by some aspect of the city life and the King's court? He hadn't come here to be liked by everyone, he had come here to become one of the best soldiers France had to offer. Or at least that was why he stayed.

So, little things.

He came out of the kitchen one day to find that his pistol, which he was sure he had left in a dry spot with his other things under the balustrade, was no longer in that spot but was laying in the mud of the courtyard, churned up by a few days of torrential rain and the coming and goings of men and horses. He looked around but could see no one who might be responsible for this, so he sighed and picked it up, pulling out a piece of cloth, and set to cleaning the mud off it, already hearing the words Aramis would have with him if he saw his weapon's state.

Another time he reached for his tack to saddle up for a ride and some training with the others outside of the city, looking forward to breathing fresh air for a few hours, away from the din and smells of too many people living in too little space, and his hand caught on the nail, leaving a long, shallow red scrape along his finger. The top of the nail had broken off, turning it into a sharp, unforgiving little dagger. He swore under his breath, wiped away the few small blood drops and went to saddle his horse.

The next time, his gloves went missing. He knew he had tucked them into his belt, at the small of his back next to his main gauche, but they were gone. Maybe he had lost them when he had been wrestling with Porthos for fun a bit earlier? But searching the whole courtyard did not turn up anything. He found them in one of the boxes two days later while mucking out the stables, smelling strongly of horse shit.

Then he was walking past a building when someone upended a bucket of dirty wash water out of the window. Within the blink of an eye, he was drenched and sputtering. Porthos and Aramis had lots of fun pointing out that he was looking not unlike a wet dog after its owner had given it a good bath while Athos made a disapproving noise at all of them and told him to go clean himself up. Still, he could have been more unfortunate, he supposed – what if it had been a chamber pot?

And so on.

They were little things, and he didn't think much by it.

***

Porthos noticed little things.

It came from his time on the streets, he supposed, where little things could be the difference between a full and an empty belly, a successful theft or a wild flight from the Red Guards, if you even had the chance to flee at all. The shift of a hidden purse – or a dagger – beneath the clothes, a small change in the expression that told you had been noticed and needed to beat a hasty retreat, the signs Charon, Flea and he used to signal each other when they were running the street together. Those were skills that had served him well as a soldier, too. Aramis, Athos and he were good at communicating with each other with few or no words at all and they had sharp eyes, too, but meaning no disrespect to his brothers, he knew he was better at spying these small details. Athos was quiet and watchful but had the tendency to get lost in his own head. Aramis, on the other hand, if he did not employ the singular focus of lining up a shot, almost saw too much and lost the overview of which details might be important. 

Porthos had learned to differentiate between the small things that were just that, small and unimportant, and those that told a story. So he noticed how their youngest seemed to have a really bad stroke of luck as of late: d'Artagnan's things went missing and kept cropping up in places where he hadn't left them for sure, often in a state poorer than they'd been. There was an unusual amount of stuff breaking around the Gascon, resulting in the one or other minor injury or just more time spent cleaning his things than usual. And even if Aramis and he had had a lot of fun with the wash water incident, he did notice how it lined up with those other things.

He could not yet put a name to it but he knew it awakened some uneasy feeling in his belly, and it was a feeling he knew well.

Then he overheard some of his fellow Musketeers talking, and he only needed to hear the tone in which one of them said “that Gascon farm boy” to know what he had been suspecting was right. There was no need for insults or words plainer than those; Porthos knew the sound of disdain and derision well enough.

He did not speak to the men but made sure to make note of their faces and the names belonging to them before quickly moving away. He would observe some more and then speak to his friends.

Nobody messed with one of his brothers.

Especially not when he remembered all too well going through something similar to what d'Artagnan was currently suffering.

***

There were more little things, more small accidents, and Porthos had seen three more men discussing something covertly with those two he had originally overheard, Gros and Larue. He finally felt it was time to tell Athos and Aramis, and together they would decide what to tell d'Artagnan and the Captain and what to do.

Porthos was a patient man, something people often failed to notice, believing him quick to anger and explode. Oh, he could do that, too, but he knew the virtue of patience, especially in cases like this.

But this time, he wished he had gone with the sin of wrath instead. Because he had waited too long. The next thing was not so small any more.

He would forever curse his horse for making him late to training that day. Though really, the poor beast could not be blamed for falling lame the day before so he had gone to check on it after muster, and who knew what difference it might have made. By the time he got to the practice area, most of the other Musketeers had split up into groups and pairs and were engaged in the first rounds of training. He spied Aramis at the shooting range, demonstrating the loading of the pistol with practiced ease to some younger soldiers, and Athos was standing with his arms crossed as he observed those crossing the blades, as he was wont to do if not actively involved in sparring himself. d'Artagnan was paired with Maçon, another younger Musketeer, and a man large enough to almost rival Porthos' own height. Maçon was lacking Porthos' fluidity of movement, though, relaying far too much on his strength alone, and as such was having a hard time keeping up with d'Artagnan whose speed and agility easily made up for the difference in strength. The Gascon was positively dancing around his opponent, and there was an amused twinkle in Athos' eye as he observed the pair. “d'Artagnan is having Maçon's pride for breakfast,” he remarked as Porthos stepped at his side, and the dark-skinned man snorted with mirth.

“He's a good sort, though, so I'm sure he will survive,” he returned. It was true, Maçon was not a prideful man but well aware of his failings, sometimes overly so, and Porthos had attempted to teach him ways how to employ his strength in less brutish ways. Those lessons were slow going but there was hope for the young man in his eyes.

Athos nodded and started to turn away from the sparring partners. “How about us, then?” he suggested to his friend. “Or are you needed over there?” He motioned his head towards where hand-to-hand combat and wrestling was being trained. While they never had been explicitly been appointed to it, most of the other Musketeers acknowledged the Inseparables' superiority in their respective specialty and readily accepted them acting as trainers, Aramis for shooting, Athos for swords and Porthos for hand-to-hand.

“Nah, not today – I'd rather do blades,” Porthos said with a grin. It was always fun to spar with his friends, and he relished learning from his older friend who still had a thing or two to teach him, even after all those years they had spent soldiering side by side. Plus, he knew that Athos enjoyed the challenge, too, since Porthos had the ability and willingness to think outside the box and employ some unconventional techniques which kept his more traditionally trained friend from becoming too rigid in his forms.

He was about to draw his sword and salute Athos when a sound from those around them watching d'Artagnan and Maçon drew his attention back to the pair. Something seemed to have broken d'Artagnan's concentration, and he was looking away from his opponent. It was just a moment but enough for Maçon to take advantage of it, and the larger man brought his sword down in a powerful overhead swing. d'Artagnan just managed to bring up his own blade to block it and was forced a bit backwards as Maçon pressed his advantage, bearing down on the smaller man with all of his impressive strength. d'Artagnan went down on one knee, and it was clear to everyone watching that he would need a manoeuvre based on agility rather than strength to escape from the bind his momentary inattention had landed him in.

But before he could do that, a sharp sound rent the air, and d'Artagnan's sword broke, splintering near the hilt. Maçon was as surprised by this as his opponent and was unable to stop as the sudden disappearance of resistance pulled his blade and the strength behind it in the direction they had been aimed at. There was a snap and then a pain-filled cry from d'Artagnan as the blade hit his shoulder with punishing force. Both opponents toppled over, and Maçon could just wrench his sword aside as he landed on d'Artagnan to prevent further damage. As it was, the impact forced the air out of the young man's lungs, and while Maçon immediately gained his feet again, apologies spilling from his lips, the Gascon remained on the ground, looking dazed. Porthos rushed over to him immediately, and he heard Athos call for Aramis behind him.

“d'Artagnan?” Porthos asked as he carefully reached out to touch his friend's shoulder, hesitating at the last minute and switching hands to touch his right, instead of the left he had instinctively reached for – it was the shoulder Maçon had struck.

Pained brown eyes blinked up at him, and the Gascon made a sound that was barely more than a gasp. He struggled to draw breath, and his skin had paled beneath its natural olive tone.

“Breathe, d'Artagnan,” Porthos instructed him, lightly squeezing his shoulder. “In and out, slowly – you can do it.” It took a few tries but finally, d'Artagnan's panting returned to a more natural rhythm. By that time, Aramis had arrived and was nudging Porthos' side to make room for him to check on the injured man. “Where?” the medic asked.

“His left shoulder,” the large man answered, seeing that his friend was entirely busy with breathing through the pain and shock of the accident and could not respond. Aramis nodded and started to palpate the shoulder with gentle hands through his clothes. Porthos stood, giving him space to do his work, and looked around. There was quite a thrum of spectators around them, and he made shooing motions at them, accompanied by a glare and a low growl, to make them stop their gawking and return to training. Athos was standing nearby with Maçon whose face was painted with misery and regret. Athos had a hand on his shoulder and was talking to him in low tones. Porthos had no doubt that he was trying to assuage the young man's guilt at having hurt his comrade – for someone as prone to guilt-tripping himself for any and all things befalling him and those around him, Athos did not suffer it lightly when others did the same.

Concentrating on Aramis and his patient again, Porthos offered: “Maçon fell on him, too – better check his ribs as well.” Aramis only nodded, being in the process of untying d'Artagnan's doublet to more directly assess the injury. “Looks like his collarbone is broken,” he murmured. Porthos winced in sympathy – that was a painful fracture, as he knew from experience. d'Artagnan had his eyes closed, breathing heavily to withstand Aramis' poking and prodding, until the medic sat back on his haunches and said: “That seems to be the worst of it – his chest will bruise a bit but his ribs are whole. Let's get him to the infirmary so I can bind that injury.” He gently touched the young man's cheek. “d'Artagnan, I'm sorry to cause you further pain but we need to move you. Can you manage?”

The Gascon drew a deep breath and opened his eyes, meeting the marksman's gaze with his customary determination. “Don't worry,” he answered, “I'm fine.” His voice was rough with pain, clearly belying his words, but he did his best to push himself up with his right arm. Aramis quickly placed a hand on his chest to stay the movement. “Don't try moving yourself, we have you,” he told him with a small smile. “Porthos?”

Porthos nodded and moved to d'Artagnan's other side, taking his right arm and pulling it over his shoulder to lift him off the ground as gently as he could. Nevertheless, the jostling had the Gascon turn grey, and he hung his head low, his breathing speeding up once more. Porthos stood still, holding onto his friend, until he had settled and nodded slightly to indicate he was ready. Aramis took his arm on the injured side, not pulling it over his shoulder but supporting it, with his other arm around d'Artagnan's narrow waist. Athos and Maçon were trailing behind as they slowly made their way towards the infirmary.

Inside, Porthos helped d'Artagnan settle on a cot and then worked with Athos to carefully strip the young man of his doublet and shirt without causing him too much pain while Aramis gathered what he needed to immobilise the injury as best as possible. That was one of the difficulties of a broken collar bone – in contrast to a broken arm or leg, it was hard to bind it so that the bones could not shift, requiring the arm on this side to be immobilised as well. d'Artagnan would be forced into inactivity for at least a few weeks, and he knew his friend would chafe at the setback in his training and his hopes to gain a commission.

Stepping back, Porthos frowned as he watched Aramis work. Something about the accident had him unsettled, and after a moment, he decided to follow his gut instinct, turning and leaving the infirmary. He noticed Athos giving him a quizzical look but he didn't react to the unspoken question.

Outside, he hastened back to the training area where normal activity had resumed. Looking around searchingly, he could not find what he was looking for and finally took the arm of a Musketeer standing around and waiting for his turn to spar. “Have you seen the blade d'Artagnan used, the one that Maçon broke just now?” he asked.

The man looked at him in surprise and shook his head. “No, I think someone must have cleared it away,” he replied.

Porthos cursed as he released him. Of course that was reasonable but somehow it made the suspicion spike that was growing in his gut like nausea. He turned away from the confused look of his fellow Musketeer and went to search for the blade.

It took him almost half an hour until he was successful, and a grim smile of satisfaction quirked his lips until it hit home what his discovery meant, even before he had checked the sword which was not d'Artagnan's normal weapon but a training blade. Someone had removed it, and they had not placed it with the other damaged weapons awaiting repair, nor onto the pile of scraps to be thrown away. Rather, it had been hidden behind a barrel near the stables. Someone had made an effort to conceal it but hadn't had the time to remove it completely, which was his luck. But this action meant he did not actually have to check the sword to know something was not right.

Nevertheless, he let his gaze and fingers carefully wander over the blade, and looking at where it had broken near the hilt, he quickly found what he was looking for. Part of the broken edge was not jagged like the rest of it but rather straight and smooth. Porthos let forth a stream of curses and was halfway back to the infirmary before he was even aware that he was moving.

Athos and Aramis looked up when he burst into the room. d'Artagnan was resting on the cot, his chest and shoulder swaddled in bandages, his arm strapped to his side, clearly under the influence of one of Aramis' pain draughts. Maçon was nowhere to be seen – Athos must have sent him away. Porthos strode over to Athos and placed the blade and its hilt in his hands. “Someone's tampered with the blade,” he growled. “It's been filed down to weaken it.” Turning around, he started to pace the length of the room, flexing his fists open and closed. “This time, they've gone too far. They'll pay for this!”

His two friends shared an alarmed look, and Aramis moved to intercept his steps, placing a hand on his arm. “Calm yourself, my friend,” he implored. “Please explain – what do you mean?”

Porthos stood, chest heaving as he struggled to gain control of the rage burning in him, and as he locked his gaze on d'Artagnan's still form, the weight of his knowledge came crashing down on him. “I shoulda done somethin' earlier,” he muttered, “I shoulda stopped it. I knew what was goin' on, and I didn't step in, and now it's come to this. I've failed him.” He hung his head low, unable to meet his friends' eyes. He had thought it was just little things, which certainly were annoying and bothersome to the young Gascon and would hurt once he learned the malicious thoughts behind it, but he hadn't thought they would actually move to hurt him so. And now d'Artagnan had paid the price for his misplaced trust in his fellow Musketeers, even though he knew what some of them were capable of if they disapproved of who joined their ranks. Maybe he had thought d'Artagnan was safe because he was targeted for another reason, lulled into a false sense of security by the pettiness of their actions so far … Whatever it was, it meant he had underestimated the danger and had placed his young friend at risk.

“Porthos,” he heard Aramis' voice, and his friend's hand gently grasped his chin to lift his head up, his eyes searching for his gaze to catch and hold it. “Talk to us. What's going on?”

He scrubbed his hand over his face before taking a deep breath and looking from Aramis to Athos. The older Musketeer still held the blade and hilt, and his eyes were piercing as he looked up from them and met Porthos' gaze. Unable to hold it, he looked away again, shame engulfing him once more. “You noticed that d'Artagnan had suffered a bit of bad luck lately?” he began to speak wearily. “Things goin' missing, gettin' soiled or breakin' ...” Quickly looking at his friends, he saw them nodding.

“It seemed strange to me, and a few days ago, I overheard some others talk about our friend. Nothin' special, just ...” he spread his hands in a helpless gesture, “just the tone they used, you know?” They probably didn't, something in him said with bitterness though he baulked at the disservice he was doing his brothers. “But I didn't know for sure if there was a connection, so I waited some more. Didn't catch any in the act but more little things happened to d'Artagnan, and I saw the ones I'd overheard talk to others, secretly-like. Was about to tell you but then ...” he gestured to d'Artagnan, “this happened. I didn't think they'd go that far! Didn't ...” For a moment he trailed off and looked elsewhere, bile rising in his throat. “Didn't wanna believe there's more of them like this,” he finished, his voice barely a whisper.

Silence reigned as he had ended, and he sat down heavily on an empty cot, leaning forward to brace his elbows on his knees and bury his hands in his curls.

“Oh, Porthos,” Aramis breathed quietly, and Porthos felt a hand settle on his back. Another hand joined it on his shoulder, and he managed to raise his head to meet Athos' clear, cool gaze.

“Don't blame yourself, brother,” the older man said. “The only ones to blame are those willing to hurt someone else just because they believe them beneath them.”

At his side, Aramis nodded, his expression warm and full of absolution. “I'm sure d'Artagnan would tell you the same if he were awake,” he told him. “You did your best to watch out for him, and it is not your fault that they moved too fast for you to prevent this.”

Porthos bit his lip, wanting to believe in his friends' reassurances but unsure if he really deserved them, feeling stripped bare after some of the things he had revealed. Finally, he nodded and leaned back a bit, looking up at them. He would try to put these feelings aside for the moment, though he certainly felt the need to search for d'Artagnan's forgiveness, too, once the young man had recovered to some extent. “Alright,” he said, “alright. What do we do now?”

Athos went over to the broken sword he had set aside to come to Porthos' side, picking it up and studying the edge with narrowed eyes. “Who are the men you're suspecting?” he asked, running a thumb over the metal. “Maçon?”

Porthos shook his head with fervour. “No, I don't think he was involved. He's a good lad, it was just bad luck that he was the one responsible for the blade breakin'. You've seen how much he regretted hurtin' d'Artagnan.”

Athos nodded curtly. “Who, then?”

“Gros and Larue,” Porthos answered, “and I saw them speakin' to Royer, Travert and Borde.”

Athos bit back a curse. “Royer gave d'Artagnan this blade,” he said. “There was a problem with d'Artagnan's sword, the hilt had loosened a bit. I told him to get one of the training blades until it had been fixed.” A shadow passed over his face, and Aramis, always quick on the uptake, pointed a finger at him in reproach. “Don't you get started,” he admonished. “Heed your own words, Athos.”

Despite everything, Porthos had to suppress a snort of laughter at that, and Aramis flashed him a grin speaking of his relief to see his friend come out of the fog of guilt and anger somewhat. “So, Royer,” the marksman said. “It's not presumptuous to assume he's been involved in this, at least. Should we go confront him? Or go to Tréville?”

Athos put the two pieces of the sword aside, scratching his beard thoughtfully. “I hesitate to go to Tréville yet but he will need to be informed soon,” he mused. “They were willing to get d'Artagnan seriously hurt with this.”

“He did get seriously hurt!” Porthos exploded, gesturing towards their young friend. “How much more should he have to suffer from these men?”

Athos held up a placating hand. “Peace, my friend. I apologise if my words made it sound as if I'm downplaying what happened. But I want to have as much details and evidence as possible before going to the Captain. Royer is a given, I'd say, but I want all of those responsible to get their just desserts, not just him.” He held Porthos' gaze, the blue eyes unwavering in their certainty. “I swear to you, we won't let further harm come to him, none of us.”

Aramis nodded, giving Porthos' shoulder a comforting squeeze. “Let's not disturb our friend's sleep for now and move to another room to talk about how best to find out more?” he suggested.

***

Later that day, Porthos was found at d'Artagnan's bedside, Athos and Aramis having returned to their duties after they had talked. Normally, Aramis was loathe to leave their side when one of his friends was injured, but while the Gascon's injury was a painful one, there was little to do besides what he had done and no risk of his conditioning worsening; so the marksman had seen that Porthos' need was greater than his own right now, the large man still not able to shake his guilt at not having prevented the incident. Both his friends had repeatedly tried to dissuade him from the notion but had finally given up, understanding that it would most likely need d'Artagnan's absolution and bringing down those responsible for it before he could let go.

Porthos was thumbing idly through a book some former inhabitant of one of the cots must have left behind. He was not an avid reader like Athos or Aramis but right now it provided some welcome distraction from his thoughts which kept circling around the events of the day, his emotions swinging between remorse, fury and despondency, while he waited for their youngest to wake from the sleep induced by the pain draught. He was glad to see that d'Artagnan's colour had returned and he was breathing easily, the pain held at bay by the draught and the stillness of sleep, and for that reason he wished the young man would stay asleep for some time longer – and a part also wanted to delay the inevitable talk they would need to have, while another part could not wait for it so he could beg for d'Artagnan's forgiveness and hopefully alleviate his guilty conscience.

Some little movement caught his eye, and he put the book aside, leaning forward to watch as the Gascon slowly woke, eyelids fluttering a moment before he opened them lazily, his gaze searching until it fell on him. “Porthos,” he murmured, bringing up his hand to rub the sleep from his eyes. A look of confusion passed over his face at the discovery that his left arm was restricted, and Porthos quickly placed a hand on the one bound to his body, holding it in place. “Easy, d'Artagnan,” he said, “Aramis strapped your arm so the bones won't shift when you move it.” Knowing fully well how the combination of pain and Aramis' medicine could addle the mind, he asked: “Do you remember what happened?”

The young man closed his eyes for a moment, breathing deeply, then nodded. “My sword broke, and Maçon's blow broke something in my shoulder – my collarbone?”

Porthos smiled, glad to know his friend's mind was clear. “Good,” he praised. Seeing d'Artagnan swallow and lick at his dry lips, he helped him sit up and scoot back to rest against the wall behind the cot, then reached for a cup of water Aramis had left next to the cot. He held the cup to his lips for him to drink, ignoring the glare he got for his troubles. “How's the pain?”

“I'm fine,” the Gascon replied. At Porthos' unimpressed snort, he relented and amended: “It hurts but it's not too bad. I can handle it.”

“Alright.” The dark-skinned man nodded. “Do tell when you need some relief. Remember, you'll heal faster when your body doesn't have to waste energy on battlin' the pain.” It was a lesson they had had to drill into the young man repeatedly – though Porthos had to admit it might have been slightly easier if the Inseparables themselves were better at emulating their own advice, none of them particularly good at accepting their bodies' limits after an injury and loathe to be fussed over.

“Aramis and Athos?” d'Artagnan asked.

“Had to go back to their duties – they'll be by later,” Porthos replied.

d'Artagnan nodded, letting his head fall back against the wall and closing his eyes. For a while, they sat in silence until Porthos could no longer bear it. “I'm so sorry, d'Artagnan,” he blurted out.

d'Artagnan startled and opened his eyes, looking at his friend with confusion written all over his face. “What for?” he asked.

“For this.” Porthos gestured to his bandaged shoulder.

If anything, d'Artagnan's frown deepened, confused not only by Porthos' words but also the abject misery on the normally so affable man's face. “Why? You were not involved, you weren't even near me,” he questioned.

“Yes, but ...” Porthos scrubbed his hands over his face, searching for the right words. “I knew someone was targetin' you, and I failed to protect you.”

d'Artagnan already opened his mouth for a quick retort, most likely to protest that he didn't need protection, but reconsidered and instead asked: “Wait, what? Targeting me?” He studied his friend and at his nod, asked almost gently, reading the guilt that was positively radiating from him: “How about you tell me from the beginning?”

Porthos sighed softly but did as he was bid, explaining about his suspicions about d'Artagnan's “bad luck”, the covert discussions between the five Musketeers he had observed, and finally the tampered blade that had lead to the injury. “I shoulda told you and the others earlier,” he finished with another wave of sorrow, “or get them to leave you alone on my own. And if I hadn't been too late to practice today, I'd have seen Royer givin' you the blade, and--” It no longer held him in his seat, and he started pacing again, berating himself for his failure to do something to prevent harm coming his friend's way.

“Porthos,” d'Artagnan interrupted him, dark eyes wide with worry at his friend's distress, “it's not your fault, you couldn't have known--”

He shook his head violently, not letting him finish. “I shoulda known, I know what men like this are capable of, I shoulda--”

“Porthos, please!” d'Artagnan struggled to sit up straight with no arm to support himself since the unbound arm was stretched out towards the large man pleadingly. “Calm down!” His efforts to reach forward to his friend jostled his broken bone, and a pained gasp escaped him.

The sound of pain was Porthos' undoing, destroying the last of the tenuous hold he had on the emotions running wild in him, and the Musketeer backed away, nearly stumbling over a chair standing in his way. “d'Artagnan, I … I'm sorry, I can't--” With these words, he whirled around and stormed out of the room. He almost collided with Aramis who chose just this moment to open the door but barely spared a glance at him as he ran. The marksman looked to d'Artagnan, silently asking what happened, but the younger man just shook his head. “Go after him!” he implored and sank back against the wall in his back as Aramis obeyed and hurried from the room, cursing his inability to go after his friend himself.

It was several long minutes until Aramis returned. He shook his head sadly, and d'Artagnan's face fell. “He's gone?” he asked, nevertheless.

Aramis nodded. “Yes.” Despite his size, Porthos was a fast runner, and his knowledge of the city's streets stemming from his time as a thief growing up on them meant he was exceptionally skilled at giving pursuers the slip and not being found when he did not want to be. Aramis breathed a deep sigh and sat down in the chair so recently vacated by the dark-skinned Musketeer. “How are you?” he asked his young friend.

“Fine,” d'Artagnan answered automatically and ignored the displeased huff Aramis made at the predictability of the answer, his eyes still on the door. He was struggling to keep himself from attempting to go after Porthos himself, even though he logically knew that he had no better chance to find him than Aramis, especially not while hampered by his injury. “But Porthos ...” He trailed off and finally turned his gaze away, looking at the marksman instead. “I don't think I've ever seen him like this, and I've seen him shouldering the blame when there was none to bear before – all three of you.” Athos most struggled with the decisions to make on a mission, d'Artagnan, but also his two older friends, willingly deferring to his natural leadership skills; Aramis was always fretting about doing the right thing in caring for his brothers when one of them got injured; and Porthos always felt guilty when he was unable to protect one of them or on the rare occasions when he didn't know his own strength and caused them damage. But even considering his prior knowledge of d'Artagnan's harassment, his reaction seemed disproportionate this time.

Aramis inclined his head in assent. Truth be told, he had wondered all day at that, too. He thought he had an inkling of what might explain it but was unsure how much of it he could share with his young friend or if it was Porthos' story to tell. “As we have you,” he pointed out instead, referring to all those times d'Artagnan had felt it his fault when things had gone wrong, blaming himself for his inexperience and lack of proper training as a raw recruit.

The Gascon was not so easily distracted, though, and pressed on: “Do you know why?”

Aramis sighed but couldn't help the worry on the young man's face warming his heart, and he decided that his friend deserved to know – he hoped Porthos would forgive him for telling. “I may have an idea,” he admitted, “but I didn't know this particular wound was still paining him so much.” His hand went to the crucifix around his neck, and he fidgeted with it for a while, trying to sort through his thoughts. d'Artagnan, to his credit, let him take his time now that he felt some answers might be forthcoming.

Finally, Aramis began: “When Porthos joined the regiment, things were … difficult for him.” He snorted at his own understatement. “You may be able to guess why. It was not only his skin but also his childhood on the streets and his association with the Court of Miracles that had many of our comrades at the time looking at him askance.”

d'Artagnan nodded. “What did they do to him?” he asked, and Aramis could not repress a small smile at the protective tone of voice, as if the Gascon wished to travel back in time and prevent any harm coming to his friend.

He shrugged. “For the most part, many were satisfied with avoiding him and pointed looks. Then there were similar things to those you've experienced recently, I believe, and there were more than enough insults hurled at him during that time, too.” He threw a sharp glance at the recruit. “I take it they haven't taken that approach with you? Or is there anything we should be aware of?”

d'Artagnan shook his head. “Nothing but the occasional unkind remark,” he said easily, and the marksman nodded, halfway satisfied, while another part burned with anger and shame at his comrades with the knowledge that those harassing their young friend didn't even have the courage to make their feelings clear verbally, hiding behind their anonymity.

“Porthos took it all and didn't let it bring him down,” he continued, pride at his friend's mettle evident in his voice. “He has a thick skin and certainly wasn't a stranger to insults and harassment before, but I can't even begin to imagine what it took to withstand all of that in those first few months. Porthos and I became friends soon enough, having felt drawn to each other as soon as he joined and we met, and with time, many of those who were less hostile were won over by our friend's generous nature and his skills as a soldier – or some of them may just have tired of their games, I do not know.”

The young Gascon smiled at the praise and affection for his friend displayed by Aramis but the marksman's face grew serious again, and d'Artagnan looked at him with trepidation. “But?” he prompted.

Aramis cleared his throat and looked away, the memory clearly still hard on him, too. “When it became clear that he wasn't to be driven away, some of them conspired to get rid of him, more … permanently,” he said quietly. “They almost managed to do it, too – to get him killed.”

Brown eyes widened at those words, and d'Artagnan breathed a shocked “What?”, unable to imagine one of their brothers-in-arms turning against one of their own in such a way.

Aramis' voice was bitter as he continued: “They bid their time – we almost thought it was over since the earlier harassment had all but stopped. But when Porthos was sent on a solo mission – which was a more regular occurrence back then since we didn't have the numbers to send out pairs or groups unless strictly necessary –, they sabotaged his weapons and supplies. We never found out if the bandits that attacked him were part of the plan as the conspirators never admitted to sending them, though I do suspect it was so. Be it as it were, while he managed to kill the two men, their attack left him severely wounded and without supplies, hours from Paris. I'll forever be grateful that Tréville became worried when he didn't return when he was due and sent me to search for him, and that I was able to get to him in time. It still was a near thing, and for a few days it was unclear if he survived at all or if he were to lose his hand to the burns of his pistol exploding in it.”

d'Artagnan noticed he had been holding his breath during Aramis' tale, overcome with fear for his friend despite knowing that everything would turn out fine, since Porthos was hale and healthy and definitely still in the possession of two hands. Forcing himself to exhale and breathe in again slowly, he asked: “But you did find out who it had been?”

The marksman nodded. “Once Porthos was well enough to tell us what happened, the Captain was ruthless in flushing out those responsible. One of them was named as a possible suspect, having been seen near Porthos' horse before he departed, and he was quick to fold and name the others. They were all punished and stripped of their commission in disgrace, and Tréville told everyone that he would not accept anything like this ever again, and whoever did not want to serve at the side of those like Porthos due to their past, skin or anything else had better leave before he found out.” A faint smile tugged at his lips remembering the Captain's incensed words, though there was little actual humour in it. “I think seeing that this threat has been forgotten has opened up those wounds again for Porthos,” he added soberly. “Though I do not quite understand why he didn't come to us or the Captain earlier but--” He shrugged. “No use dwelling on that,” he finished. “All we can do now is bringing those men down, and make sure both you and Porthos can heal.”

d'Artagnan protested: “I'm fine, Aramis. It's Porthos I'm worried about.” As his older friend sighed, he rolled his eyes and amended: “Alright, my shoulder really hurts, and I'm not happy about being banned from training for weeks, probably – and I'm certainly not happy about some of those who might be my brothers-in-arms one day disliking me that much that they'd willingly do me harm. But I'll be good once we've dealt with them and my shoulder gets better, I'm sure. But Porthos ...”

Aramis reached out and took the Gascon's hand, squeezing it lightly. “It does you credit that you're so much more worried for your friend than for yourself,” he said, warmth and fondness colouring his words. “Knowing that and that he has your forgiveness for his perceived failure will be a huge balm on Porthos' soul. Still, do not deny yourself the comfort we're offering because you believe Porthos' need to be greater. I'm sure Athos and I will be able to give both of you our support without overtaxing ourselves.” The last bit was spoken sincerely but with a quirk of his lips and a twinkle in the marksman's dark eyes.

d'Artagnan returned the grin and the invitation to some banter gladly. “Are you sure? I believe it of you but Athos may strain some emotional muscle with that.”

The medic laughed and released his hand, getting up. “You might be right. Now, why don't I give you something for the pain – just something mild to take the edge of, I promise it won't make you sleep if you promise to rest later in turn – and then I go get Athos, and we can tell you about what we've been planning to do so far to make sure we get all of them?”

d'Artagnan bit his lip as if holding back another protest that he was fine but nodded his assent. Anticipating his next question, Aramis added: “You know as well as I that Porthos won't be found if he doesn't want to be. Let's give him some time to cool off. He'll be back by breakfast tomorrow, I'd wager.”

The Gascon looked unconvinced and worried but finally decided to accept his older friend's judgement, knowing how long the two of them had been friends. If anyone knew what to expect from the large Musketeer in this situation, it was Aramis.”Alright,” he agreed softly.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for the enthusiastic response to this story! Please enjoy the next part :).

As the evening drew to a close, Aramis and Athos left d'Artagnan for a night in the infirmary, promising to let Constance know where he was so she wouldn't worry about her wayward lodger – even if “he's spending the night in the infirmary” was not the most reassuring thing to hear, too. The Gascon spent a rather uneasy night, kept from a restful sleep by his worries about Porthos and the men who seemed to hate him so much, and the occasional pain shooting through him upon some awkward movement jostling his shoulder. He was glad when the morning arrived and brought with it Aramis and Athos' return with breakfast.

They had just settled down for the meal, d'Artagnan grudgingly suffering the others serving him due to having only one functioning arm to himself, as the door opened again and admitted a very sheepish-looking Porthos.

Aramis looked around at his friend's approach and then grinned at d'Artagnan cheekily. “I should have placed some money on that wager,” he chuckled, and the young recruit returned the grin, relief shining in his dark eyes, while Athos just raised an eyebrow at their exchange.

“Welcome back,” the older Musketeer greeted their brother dryly as he stopped a few feet from them. The big man looked between them and finally said: “I'm sorry.”

Athos sighed. “Stop apologising, Porthos.”

Porthos shook his head. “It was stupid. You need me here, not fallin' apart all over the place,” he returned.

Aramis stood up and pulled his friend into an embrace. “You may fall apart as much as you need to, but we'd be happier if you did it somewhere where we can help you put yourself back together,” he admonished him gently.

d'Artagnan, for his part, moved awkwardly forward on his cot until he could reach out with his good arm and take Porthos' hand where it was hanging limply at his side as he stood, motionless, in Aramis' embrace. He gave it a light squeeze and finally said: “You are forgiven, my friend, for this and everything else plaguing you.”

At that, the big Musketeer heaved a sigh and slumped forward into Aramis' arms, his weight resting on the smaller man for a moment. The marksman smiled and patted his back. “There, there,” he teased, “though I didn't expect I'd have to keep you upright quite so literally. You're heavy, dear brother.”

Porthos gave a small, watery snort and drew back, surreptitiously wiping at his face. Aramis released him with a last pat on the back and pressed him down onto the stool Athos had drawn up for him. Taking in the swarthy countenance, none of them could miss that he was paler than usual, apart from the bruised skin below his eyes that spoke of a night badly spent. It was Athos who asked bluntly: “You look like you have slept not a wink tonight. Where have you been?”

Porthos shrugged and answered: “Nearby.” His tone said that no answers would be forthcoming, even as Athos directed one of his eloquent eyebrow raises his way, and Athos gave a dip of his head by way of acceptance. They settled back around their meal, and bit by bit, the atmosphere relaxed as their circle was finally whole again.

***

After the mid-day meal, Aramis allowed d'Artagnan to finally leave the infirmary and sit in the garrison's courtyard while the three of them went about their duties. The would-be Musketeer was glad to be out and about even if all he did was sit in the weak sunlight at their usual table. It was agreed that he could not return to his lodgings for a while since he was unable to clothe and, to the young man's great embarrassment, even relieve himself one-handed, and it would be terribly unseemly to ask the lovely Madame Bonacieux to help him. So he would need to stay in the infirmary or with one of the others so they could assist him. Porthos had passionately argued against the former, and d'Artagnan had the distinct feeling that if they had chosen the infirmary, Porthos would have spent a lot of nights “nearby”, a suspicion he was sure Aramis and Athos shared. Staying with one of his friends it was, then.

But for now, even if he was itching to be free of the sling constricting his arm and shoulder and doing something productive, he sat and enjoyed being part of the usual hustle and bustle of the Musketeer garrison in that way again, at least. Maçon came and sat by him for a while, apologising profusely again for hurting him, until Porthos took pity on both lads and collected the contrite young Musketeer for some task or another. His friends moved around, in and out of the yard on their duties, not actually at his side most of the time, but d'Artagnan could feel the gaze of one of them on him almost constantly. It made him feel warm and protected but also slightly smothered, and he sighed, resting his chin on his free hand. He really hoped they would manage to get those men and his bones would heal quickly so life could return to normal. Well, as normal as their lives could be, he supposed. As Musketeers, they were never free of danger but feeling as if danger was lurking here, in the place that had felt like it was becoming a home to him, among people who had been on the way of becoming his family after losing his father … Now that his worry over Porthos had abated, d'Artagnan could admit to himself that it did hurt. Well, there was no danger among those who had well and truly become his family, he thought as he caught Athos' gaze from across the courtyard, and the older Musketeer gave him a quick dip of his head and a half-smile. They would make sure he was safe, and with them at his side, he could deal with whoever tried to hurt or drive him away. He would show them that he had the heart of a Musketeer and was above being bullied by those who had not, even if they wore the pauldron and he didn't.

***

The next days proceeded in much the same fashion, as his bones continued to heal, and it was almost a disappointment that his “bad luck” seemed to have stopped and there were no more little things. Knowing of Porthos' experience, none of them was relaxing his guard, though. All of them were nervous when they had to leave him alone for a while, for guard duty and similar things, and he often used this time to go visit Constance, making sure she did not think he had forgotten about her friendship. It was better if he was not in the garrison without his brothers watching his back. And it was only for a short while, anyway.

Until Tréville called the Inseparables into his office for a mission that would take them away from Paris for a week or more.

“What? No! We can't go!” Porthos protested when Tréville had barely finished his orders, and the Captain looked taken aback at the fervid protest.

Casting his mind about for a cause of this, he settled on d'Artagnan's injury as the most likely one and said: “Look, I know you're loath to leave the lad behind but he'll be alright staying here and continuing to heal, and you've gone on enough missions without him. By the time you get back, he should be able to exchange that sling for something lighter and get in some exercise to start recovering his strength, right, Aramis?”

The medic of the group shifted uncomfortably and exchanged a glance with his brothers. They had wanted to only go to Tréville once they had secured enough evidence – so far, the only thing they had was the broken blade incriminating Royer, and even this could be construed as circumstantial if he claimed he had had no idea about the tampering. There had been no new incidents, and all their attempts to covertly investigate the previous happenings and the men they suspected had not resulted in anything tangible. But leaving d'Artagnan alone for so long when they even worried their way all through guard duty at the palace – it was inconceivable.

“Aramis?” The Captain frowned at his three men as his question went unanswered and they were having one of these silent conversations they were known for. It was a great asset to have but he definitely did not like it when they did it with him.

Aramis shook himself to get out of his thoughts and turned towards Tréville once more. “You are right about that, Captain,” he started, “but that is not what we are worried about.”

Tréville raised an eyebrow and leaned forward, steepling his fingers. “Well then, explain yourself,” he demanded.

The three men exchanged another glance, and it was Athos who started speaking then, making a report in his usual clipped, factual manner. Tréville listened, his brows drawing low over his eyes as he took in what he was saying. By the time Athos had ended, he had stood and started pacing his office.

“Why am I only being told about this now?” he asked, whirling around to face them again, hands on his hips.

“We have no evidence, Sir,” Athos replied, meeting the stormy blue eyes without flinching. “Most of it is just Porthos' observations and conclusions, and the only piece of evidence does not clearly incriminate anyone.”

“We're sure about Royer bein' involved but we wanted to make sure all of them would be caught,” Porthos added.

The Captain sighed. “I'd have thought you'd have more trust in me,” he said in a low voice, disappointed. “You should know I won't stand for that.” His gaze went to Porthos and Aramis at these words – Athos had not yet been with the regiment when Porthos had undergone this particular ordeal.

Both friends shifted uncomfortably under the weight of his disappointment. “We didn't want you to be put into a delicate position without enough evidence – you have a duty to more than us,” Aramis tried to explain, and Porthos shot his friend a thankful look.

“Hrmpf.” Tréville didn't have a good argument against that, admittedly. “Still, the moment it turned from harassment to injury, I should have been informed.”

His men looked down, ashamed and suitably chastised. They had been so wrapped up in trying to protect their youngest brother, they had forgotten about their duty to their Captain and the fierce loyalty he held for his men. Finally, Aramis raised his head and stated: “We're sorry, Captain. But surely you see now why we can't leave.”

The commanding officer looked at them calmly and after a moment, he said: “On the contrary. I actually think it's all the more reason for you to go.”

Aramis and Porthos immediately burst into shocked protest but Athos was silent, his gaze intent on the Captain's face. He knew that look in those pale blue eyes. Tréville had an idea. “What do you suggest?” he asked once his brothers had calmed down, helped along by him grabbing their arms and squeezing them, indicating they should hold back.

Tréville returned to his seat and pulled out some brandy, filling tankards for all of them. “You've been watching the lad closely since the accident,” he remarked. “I noticed but put it down to your usual fussing because of the injury.” He chuckled lightly at the redness raising in Aramis' cheeks, at how Athos pulled himself up and adopted a haughty look, trying to look as if fussing was nothing he'd ever do, and at Porthos' sudden concentration on the drink in his hand. They'd never admit it but they were all terrible worriers when one of them was injured, and particularly if the one affected was a certain Gascon who had so successfully made a place for himself in their tight-knit unit. “But now I know why. I'd hazard the guess that those men have noticed it, too, and they wouldn't dare to make a move while he is so well-guarded. Actions like these are not those of courageous men.”

Porthos snorted and mumbled bitterly: “Tell me 'bout it.” The other two just nodded, none of them attempting to hide their disdain. Still, the conclusion Athos was drawing from the Captain's words was not one he liked. “You're suggesting that we leave d'Artagnan unprotected. That we use him as bait,” he said, trying but failing to keep his tone neutral – Tréville certainly heard the accusatory note in it.

The Captain raised a placating hand. “I'm afraid I'd have to say yes to the second part,” he said, ignoring the incredulous looks he earned with this statement, “not so much to the first part, though.”   
He gazed at them seriously in turn. “For one, you need to remember that this is a garrison full of Musketeers, and most of them like your young protégé. There are others to watch his back, even if you can't do it yourself. And second ...” he smiled slightly, “I would be amenable to only send two of you on this mission. While three men would be good, I trust that two of you would be able to do it just as effectively. However, all three of you would need to leave. To be seen leaving.”

Aramis nodded, understanding sparking in his dark eyes. “The third man could then circle around and come back to watch unseen, while those men believe us all gone and d'Artagnan on his own,” he concluded.

Porthos grumbled, clearly not entirely happy with the plan, but nodded as well, seeing the wisdom in it nonetheless. “That'll work, I guess.”

“Glad that you approve,” Tréville commented dryly. His expression was sympathetic, though, and Athos felt another rush of gratitude to this man. He didn't have to do this – as their commanding officer, he would have been well within his rights to order them to fulfil their mission, and they would not have any choice but to do it or risk being court-marshalled for dereliction of duty if they didn't and were caught. But he had offered them a solution and his assistance nevertheless and increased their chances at finally getting somewhere at the same time.

“I'll leave it to you who will be the one to stay in Paris, gentlemen. Make sure you're gone at least a couple of hours before doubling back, and let me know where the one of you staying behind is and how to contact him. I'll inform d'Artagnan while you get ready for your departure – send him up, will you? Travel safe,” the Captain said, dismissing them.

The three of them saluted him and filed out of his office. Coming down the steps into the courtyard, Athos caught d'Artagnan's eye, the young man sitting in his customary place at their table, and made a motion for him to go up to the Captain's office. As he got up and their paths crossed, the older Musketeer reached out and put a hand on d'Artagnan's shoulder, giving it a short squeeze. If the young man wondered at what had brought about the affectionate gesture, he did not ask, just shot him a short smile and moved past them, disappearing into Tréville's office.

At the bottom of the stairs, Porthos made to turn to them but before he could start speaking, Athos stalled him with a sharp glance. “Not here,” he said in a low voice, “Aramis' room.” The other two nodded and they moved off.

Once the door had closed behind them, Porthos spoke, and Athos had known what he would say: “I'll stay. You know I'm best at remainin' unseen, so I should be the one to stay.”

Athos sighed and scrubbed a hand through his beard. “That's true, my friend, but I think you should go. This whole thing has taken quite an emotional toll on you – which none of us blames you for,” he replied patiently, exchanging a glance with Aramis that confirmed that the marksman agreed with him. While Porthos had been able to get his emotions back under control for the most part after the accident, they had all noticed the frustration, worry and anger threatening to spill forth from the dark-skinned man the longer they had been unable to make real headway in their investigation. And a frustrated and angry Porthos was a dangerous thing; while his self-control was better than many gave him credit for, once the dam burst, there was no telling what might happen.

Porthos growled: “I don't need no protectin' of my tender feelin's; I need to know the lad is safe and we'll get them.” There was desperation in the dark eyes as he looked at his friends, imploring again: “Let me stay. I need to do somethin' to make sure that happens. I can't go.”

Aramis shook his head sadly, and Athos could tell it pained him as much as it did Athos to deny their friend's request. “You're frustrated and angry, Porthos. Whoever stays needs to keep a cool head. Please, trust in Athos or me; each of us will protect d'Artagnan as fiercely as you would.”

The big Musketeer sagged back at those words, unable to deny his brothers his trust. “I know you will,” he murmured. “But ridin' away from him, not knowin' what'll happen … I don't know if I can do that.”

The medic reached out, drawing him near by the nape of his neck until their foreheads touched. “I know, my friend,” he murmured back, soothing, gently, “I know we're asking you to do the harder task. Forgive us.”

Porthos shook his head. “No … no, you're right,” he mumbled. “It's alright.”

Athos sighed and placed a hand on his shoulder. “I'm glad you understand,” he said heavily. He looked thoughtfully at Aramis. “So, you or me?” There was something to be said for both options: As a sharpshooter, Aramis had lots of experience climbing on rooftops or through windows (with the latter acquired in some other … pursuits as well), so he was almost as good as Porthos at moving about unseen, and his medical knowledge and marksmanship might be handy if, God forbid, things came to a head in a dramatic fashion. On the other hand, he and Porthos were closer than Athos was to the swarthy Musketeer, and he was closer to d'Artagnan, something that came to him as a surprise again and again but which he could no longer deny. It might be a source of comfort for the Gascon to know his mentor was nearby – and he had to admit he was as loath to leave him as Porthos was.

“You,” Aramis replied without hesitation, without a trace of doubt, and Athos could not keep his surprise from his face which made the marksman chuckle. “Sending you two away would be a recipe for disaster,” he explained in a light, teasing tone, “you'd worry yourself sick, both of you, with no one to keep up your spirits, and we can't have that. My cheery disposition will be more needed on the road than here in Paris.”

Athos let the corner of his mouth curl up in a small smile, and he dipped his head in acknowledgement of the truth in Aramis' words, though he did not doubt that the marksman would do his fair share of worrying, too. “Alright, we are agreed, then?” he asked. “Then let us get ready and take our leave from our youngest.”

The other two nodded, and they dispersed to pack their saddlebags, get rations and tack their horses.

***

d'Artagnan had settled back down at the table in the courtyard after talking to Tréville and sighed. He hated being left behind when the three Inseparables went on a mission, and even more so in his current situation which involved a lot of boredom and a certain lack of feeling safe in the Musketeers' quarters. He was thankful to the Captain for having his back, ensuring him that he would enlist a few men of whom he and his three friends were convinced that they had the recruit's best interest at heart, so that he had people at the garrison watching over him, and allowing one of his friends to stay behind, but still … He would feel their absence keenly, he was sure.

He felt someone settle on the bench next to him, causing it to dip slightly at the added weight, and turned his head to see who the newcomer was. Maçon greeted him with a smile, and he returned it freely. Ever since the accident, the young Musketeer had sought him out and kept him company often when his duties allowed ít, and d'Artagnan found himself enjoying the friendship developing between them – once Maçon had stopped apologising all the time. While it was surely no match to the bond he had with the Inseparables, it was nice to have someone his age to be friend with, someone who had just recently gained his commission and still remembered vividly the months spent as a recruit before that. And he liked the big man for himself, too, though he found himself wondering at why a gentle soul like Maçon had chosen a soldier's life. All in all, there couldn't have been a better man to break his shoulder, he thought, and the grin on his face widened.

Noticing it, Maçon raised an eyebrow. “What amuses you so?” he asked.

D'Artagnan shrugged his right shoulder carefully. He did not want to voice that thought aloud, knowing that Maçon would fail to see the humour in his injury at the other man's hand causing them to become friends; so he opted for a half-truth instead: “I just thought I'm glad that I have friends like you to keep me company while those three are gone,” he waved a hand at this three brothers who were just finishing loading their saddlebags onto the horses standing ready for their departure, “and while I'm mostly confined to the garrison.” He had gotten better at taking care of his needs one-handed, though, and if he moved carelessly and jostled his left side, the pain was no longer so sharp that it took his breath away, so he was positive that while they still needed time to knit, his bones would no longer shift unless pressure was exerted on the injury itself. Maybe it was time to return to his lodgings, now that his friends were away and his only alternative would be to return to the infirmary or take an empty guest room if the garrison had one available.

Maçon smiled at the compliment, his cheeks colouring a little – d'Artagnan hadn't paid much attention to him before but in hindsight, he couldn't help but notice that he had never seen the young Musketeer talk much to anyone; he had seemed to be a bit of a loner, not for unwillingness to engage with others but more because of some deep-seated insecurity. “You'll be missing them awfully, I expect, though,” Maçon commented.

The Gascon nodded. “Of course,” he admitted readily. “They're pretty much all the family I have left.” His breath hitched in surprise at himself speaking this out loud – he had started to think of those three as brothers, as a family, for a while but so far he'd not dared speak it; even though the others called each other brother freely, he was not sure yet that he might claim the term for himself in their eyes. But it was how he felt; he could not deny it. Shaking himself, he returned his attention to Maçon. “But it's no use brooding about it, especially before they have even left,” he added, denying himself any more thoughts in that direction. Instead, he asked his companion: “Do you have a family? Outside the Musketeers, I mean?”

The young Musketeer nodded eagerly. “My father is a minor noble living near Rouen, and I have a brother and three sisters.” A bit more subdued, he added: “I miss them a lot, too.”

d'Artagnan reached out and put a sympathetic hand on Maçon's shoulder. He certainly knew how it was to miss your family – his father's death was recent enough that he still felt the pang of longing for the only blood family he had left and which had been taken from him so violently, no matter how much his new brothers had helped to fill the hole his passing had left behind. Trying to keep the conversation light, he asked: “And are they all as big as you?”

His question had the intended effect, as Maçon's grey eyes cleared of the melancholy that had taken residence there, and he chuckled lightly. “My brother is, and one of my sisters is almost as tall as us, though not quite as broad.”

“You must be quite the impressive picture when you're all together, then,” d'Artagnan said with a smile, which made Maçon laugh.

“Maybe so but size isn't everything. Actually, if you want to put the fear of God in a man, set my youngest sister on him, and he'll be quaking in his boots in no time. And she's tiny.”

“True, never underestimate a woman,” d'Artagnan agreed, his thoughts going to a certain landlady – Constance was not tiny but she was more than capable of putting the fear of God in someone, even his friends and him sometimes, and none of them was a coward.

They chatted amicably for a while, the Gascon enjoying the fond ease with which Maçon spoke of his family, though he learned with sorrow that the other young man had shared his fate in becoming motherless before reaching adulthood. The three Inseparables had finished their preparations in the meantime and came to stand before them, ready to take their leave from him. Maçon glanced up at them and with a shy smile and a nod of his head, he moved away a bit, allowing d'Artagnan to rise and say goodbye to his friends in peace.

Aramis was first, drawing his young friend close and resting his hands on both his upper arms. “Now listen,” he said seriously, “promise me you won't do anything stupid with that shoulder, alright? The physician has promised to check on you every couple of days, so I don't want to hear any complaints or, God forbid, anything about new injuries when we get back.”

d'Artagnan rolled his eyes at the medic's fussing but it was coloured with fondness, and he smiled as he replied: “I promise, Aramis. I'll be careful.”

Aramis nodded, satisfied, and gave him a quick hug before releasing him and letting Porthos take his place. The big Musketeer hesitated to envelop him in one of his usual bone-crushing hugs, fearful of causing the lad pain accidentally, until d'Artagnan stepped forward, shaking his head and grinning. “I'm not that fragile, Porthos,” he said and pulled him into a one-armed hug.

Porthos returned the grin ruefully but was definitely much more gentle in hugging the young man back than he would usually be. “Keep your chin up, yeah?” he said in a low voice. “You've got people around, and we'll get back as soon as we can.”

d'Artagnan nodded and patted his back with his good hand. “I'll be fine. Don't worry so much and keep your mind on the mission,” he said, knowing how much of a danger distraction could be on the road.

“Alright, yeah, I will,” Porthos promised. He let go of him and stepped back so that the Gascon could turn towards Athos.

His mentor placed a hand at his neck and pulled him forward to rest his forehead against the young man's. “I'll see you soon,” he said quietly. d'Artagnan smiled, the words confirming to him what he had suspected after Aramis and Porthos' goodbye: Athos would be the one to come back after a detour to make it look like he was leaving, as the Captain had promised. He could not deny that knowing the older Musketeer would be watching out for him warmed and buoyed him in a particular way, though it would also have been a comfort to know Aramis or Porthos nearby. And he was glad to know that Porthos would have his oldest friend at his side, aware of how much the situation had upset the dark-skinned man and how much he had to hate not being there to protect d'Artagnan himself.

He dipped his head to Athos' words. “Stay safe, all of you,” he said, and his mentor gave him one of his rare, short half-smiles, squeezing the nape of his neck, before he turned away and motioned to the others to mount up. With one last glance at the young man and a salute to Tréville who was watching from the balcony in front of his office, the three Musketeers wheeled their mounts around, and then they were gone. d'Artagnan stood, feeling suddenly bereft at their departure, and it took a few deep breaths until he turned back to Maçon, a smile affixed to his face, as he asked: “So, what are your plans for the day? Any chance you might keep a poor invalid company at the mid-day meal?”

***

Athos leant back in the rickety stair and sighed. He poured himself a cup of wine and took a first sip, savouring the taste. It was hard not to drink quickly but he had promised himself that he would pace his drinking as long as his vigil lasted – he needed his wits about him, no matter how much he yearned to calm his thoughts, racing and spiralling when he could do nothing but keep watch, with the blanket of drunkenness. For now, he could relax at least a bit, though. Tréville had just called d'Artagnan into his office, so Athos could take a break for one hour, knowing that he was kept busy by their commander. It was the fourth day since Porthos and Aramis had left, and Tréville had arranged for this on the first day – officially to alleviate some of d'Artagnan's boredom. Or maybe to introduce him to a different kind of boredom. The young man would be called to the office for two hours each day to help the Captain with the paperwork since he was able to write and fetch Tréville things one-handed. It was a good idea to give the restless Gascon a chance to feel somewhat useful, and it gave his guardian angel the chance to have a meal, stretch his legs and take care of any business, and Athos was thankful for the short reprieve.

It had been four days, and so far, nothing had happened. Athos had found a spot in an unused storage room in the garrison's uppermost level that gave him a good vantage point of the courtyard below, and for the most part, he did not have to move from it much since d'Artagnan spent most of his time down at the table the four brothers so often shared. He would observe the men at their training, and it wasn't hard to read his desire to be among them in the tension radiating from his posture. He helped Jacques if he could, by holding the horses the stable boy had saddled for Musketeers departing on a mission, fetching tack or brushing their coats, and Athos was glad that the lad could do as much, knowing how much being around the horses served to calm his young friend. Still, being forced into inaction was hard on him, even if it made watching him somewhat easier. Athos had been surprised and somewhat concerned when d'Artagnan had left the garrison in the evening of the first day, and he had followed him to see him return to his room at the Bonacieux's house. While he was glad to see him regain some of his independence, Athos was nevertheless torn about this development: He believed that d'Artagnan would be safer there than he was at the garrison, as much as it pained him to think this. Bonacieux did not like his young lodger but he was in need of coin, as little as the Gascon could bring. And Constance … She's a married woman, he heard d'Artagnan say, the denial as transparent as the finest crystal. His beautiful landlady did pose a special danger to the young man but it was not to his physical well-being, and he had no doubt that she would protect him as fiercely as any of his brothers, should someone try to get to d'Artagnan there. But that still left the way from the garrison to their house, and with the added anonymity of the busy streets and without the presence of other, well-meaning Musketeers, it might offer too good an opportunity to anyone intending to bring harm to him. His worries had been somewhat mitigated, however, when he noticed that he was not the only one following the young man – his other shadow was Le Beau, an older Musketeer whom the Captain trusted, and so did Athos. Tréville obviously had kept his promise and had d'Artagnan well-guarded.

Still, he found himself wishing something would happen. It was wearing down on him to wait, and he could only imagine how much more it would do so on d'Artagnan, the one truly at risk. What if those men did not make any other attempt at harassing him for as long as Porthos and Aramis were gone – or even longer? If they did not manage to flush them out or catch them in the act, this threat would continue hanging over d'Artagnan's head, and after what Aramis and Porthos had shared about the latter's experience, they would never be able to fully relax their guard; these men's malice would poison what was supposed to be their young friend's new home, his new family. If nothing happened, their best bet would be to get Royer for the sabotaged blade, letting the rest of them escape punishment. The thought left a sour taste in Athos' mouth, and he took another sip of his wine.

His thoughts were disrupted by a light knock at the door, and he raised an eyebrow. Tréville was the only one who knew where he was, having been informed by a messenger Athos had sent after getting installed in this room on the first day. So this was undoubtedly a message from the Captain, and he felt worry pool in his gut – well, it looked as if he got his wish after all. Something must have happened.

Opening the door, he found himself face to face with Jacques, the stable boy, who greeted him quickly and a bit nervously. “The Captain sends this,” he said, handing over a roll of parchment.

Athos thanked him and opened the Captain's message immediately. As he did so, a smaller piece of parchment fell from it and landed on the floor. At first, he paid it no attention but then he read Tréville's words: 

_Athos,_

_d'Artagnan got this message this morning, just before I called him up to me. It was sent with a messenger, a small boy who only told Favreau to give it to d'Artagnan, or so he told the lad. I will question Favreau for more details later but I don't expect much to come of it. At least they have now shown their hand. Be alert._

_Tréville_

Athos bent and snatched up the piece of parchment. In large, ugly letters, it bore an even uglier message:

_You will never be a Musketeer. Leave, or you will regret it. The next time, you will suffer more than a broken bone._

He swore, crushing the piece of parchment in his fist. He had seen Favreau speak with d'Artagnan when he had entered the courtyard but had paid it no mind as the interaction seemed harmless and Favreau was not anyone he suspected of involvement in this; he had not seen where the Musketeer had come from. He hoped that Favreau's words to d'Artagnan were true and they did not have to add him to their list of suspects – it was certainly believable that whoever had sent the message had used an outside person to carry it. It was not that hard to find a child, of the Court of Miracles or otherwise, who was willing to give a message to a Musketeer in exchange for a shiny coin.

With a loud exhale of air, he went over to his table and penned a quick note for Tréville, sending Jacques off with it and a short thanks. Then he returned to his chair and sat, taking another sip of wine as he pondered this new development. As the Captain had said, they had shown their hand with this message. Everything that had happened before could still be construed as minor pranks or an accident, even if the conspirators knew they had the broken blade. But this was an open threat. How could they deal with it? They could go on the offensive – Tréville could openly address the regiment, telling them about the note and ensuring that everyone knew what would happen if the threat was carried out. But they would be back where they started: The threat might be eliminated for some time but given they were brazen enough to make it so openly, it would not ensure that it was truly gone, and their earlier actions would remain unpunished. What would happen if they did not acknowledge it, though? Would it embolden those men enough to act? This would give them the chance to catch them but he was terrified to think of what they might do to d'Artagnan, seeing now that with such hatred, they could no longer expect harmless harassment like in the beginning. It made him sick to his stomach that he must have served with these men for years, and he had never known them for the vile creatures they were now turning out to be; he could only expect that this sentiment was shared by his Captain who had worked so hard to instil a great sense of honour and brotherhood in his regiment.

Athos downed the remaining wine in a big gulp and set down the cup harder than necessary. He was quite sure which option Tréville, and most importantly, d'Artagnan, the reckless boy, would be taking, and while his tactician's brain agreed, he worried. He would never be able to look Aramis and Porthos in the eye again if something happened to d'Artagnan …

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the lack of action in this part - bit more of an exercise in frustration for poor d'Artagnan and his brothers! Hopefully, it was a good read anyway.
> 
> The next and last part will have more action again and will be up on Saturday or Sunday.


	3. Chapter 3

It was on the eighth day that they made their move.

In hindsight, d'Artagnan would be angry at himself, for he had been distracted and hadn't paid as much attention to his surroundings as he should have done. But he was exhausted, and he thought it highly unfair that he was. After all, it wasn't as if he had done much all day … The coats of all the horses in the stables were shining as they had never shone before since he could brush them, and so he did, obsessively, until he had to force himself to stop for fear he might actually accidentally hurt one of the animals with the excessive care. He had pleaded with Serge until the old cook had taken pity on him, and now the kitchen was stocked with enough wood and water for a minor siege. He had to take countless trips since he could only carry a few pieces of wood or one bucket at a time but he hadn't minded. He even had extended his time with the Captain past the two-hour mark, even though he started to think he never wanted to see another piece of paperwork in his entire life. But everything was better than sitting in the courtyard where the lack of outer stimuli combined with his inner restlessness and nervousness was building up to a tension that made him want to scream. He was lonely, too, worrying about how Aramis and Porthos were faring on their mission and where Athos was. He was sure his mentor was nearby and watching over him but he had not seen nor spoken to the man since they had left, and he longed for his brothers' presence with an aching need that left him feeling ashamed of his weakness. Still, he also felt frustrated at the idea of their return, probably in a day or two from now, because they had not made any headway on his tormentors since that threatening note a few days ago, so their ruse of leaving him exposed did not seem to have worked …

He never saw the man who sidled up to him on the busy street until something collided with the back of his head and darkness swiftly rose to swallow him whole.

***

“No!” Athos breathed when he saw the blow connect, felling d'Artagnan. He surged forward through the throng of people, drawing his sword and a cry pushing up his throat but before it left his lips, his logical side asserted itself, and he stopped. And hated himself for it. But Porthos had said there had been five of them. The man who had taken down d'Artagnan was joined by a second one, and between them, they heaved the unconscious Gascon upwards, slinging his limp arms over their shoulders. Two men. Their faces were hidden under the brims of their hats drawn low and in the collars of their dark cloaks drawn up. This could be the only chance they had to get all of them … But that meant he had to leave d'Artagnan in their hands, and you did not knock out a man to invite him to a nice glass of wine and a round of cards. There would be further harm in store for the young man.

He hoped his brothers would forgive him for what he was doing now.

He sheathed his sword again, turned and stepped into the way of the man he heard running up to him. He put a hand to the Musketeer's chest – like Athos, he did not wear his pauldron or his cloak but Athos knew Le Beau at a glance. “Stop,” he hissed. The look of shock and betrayal on Le Beau's face cut him but he did not flinch from it. “We need to get all of them. We follow but do not engage.”

“But--” the older Musketeer made to protest but Athos quelled his words with a sharp look. “I want all of them,” he repeated. Without looking whether Le Beau relented, he turned and just glimpsed the three men turning a corner, hurrying to catch up. They had been bold to attack on a busy street – it provided anonymity but also the danger of someone seeing them and stepping up to get involved, but the attackers had been lucky. No one cared, and wasn't that unfair, especially since it was d'Artagnan who had such a keen sense of justice and never would stop from stepping up when there was trouble? He pushed that thought aside. They would not remain in the busy streets for long.

True enough, they slipped into an alley soon, weaving their way through narrow side streets with their quarry still hanging senselessly in their grasp. A short glance back showed him that Le Beau was following, keeping a bit of a distance between them. Judging by the scowl on his face, he was not happy with Athos' plan – well, in all fairness, he was not happy with it himself but he still thought it was necessary if they ever wanted to end this threat. He only prayed they would be able to keep up and the result would be worth the risk he was taking with d'Artagnan's life and safety.

Taking another corner, he wished Porthos was here – Porthos would know where they were right now, maybe even where they were taking the lad. Athos had lost track of where their way had led them a while ago but he still had the men in his sight, and they did not look around, concentrating on navigating the narrow streets with the Gascon's loose-limbed body dragging between them, making it easy to follow.

Finally, they arrived at their apparent destination, an empty house that had seen better days. He thought they were not near the Court of Miracles but then, even if it was the largest and most well-organised dwelling of unfortunate souls in the capital, it was not the only area where buildings had been abandoned and been taken over by those looking for a place to sleep and without means to procure any. He guessed this was one of those and had been chosen by the traitorous Musketeers because no one would look for them here. He wondered again what their plan was. Did they just want to torment d'Artagnan until he willingly left the Musketeers and possibly Paris, never to return? Or would it end in his death? While the former option terrified him enough, knowing the Gascon's stubbornness that might have him resist until they did him great harm, thinking of the second made an icy hand close around his heart and squeeze it. He took a deep breath as the men disappeared through the dilapidated doorway, dragging their victim inside. It would not come to that, he would make sure of it.

Once the men had gone, Athos turned around to Le Beau who had come up to his side, glaring at him. “I hope you know what you're doing, risking the lad like this,” he told him.

Athos sighed and rubbed his hand over his face. I hope so, too, he thought but did not say so out loud. “Trust me. I'd say it's a risk d'Artagnan would be willing to take, too, if it means he can become a Musketeer without the fear of having to watch his back at all times,” he answered. “Now, I want you to go back to the Garrison. Inform Tréville and get reinforcements, then come back here. I'll watch over the lad in the meantime.”

Le Beau nodded and did as he was bid; Athos took a silent breath of relief when the older Musketeer disappeared back in the direction they had come from. With reinforcements coming soon, he only had to make sure none of the men left and that d'Artagnan remained as unhurt as possible. Taking a moment to observe the building, he frowned. There was no guard posted, and they had been able to follow the men easily. If he wasn't so glad of it, he would be exasperated at how sloppily his fellow Musketeers were handling a delicate operation. It all spoke of carelessness and a barefaced high-handedness that made his blood boil in more than one way.

He was about to move out of the cover of the doorway opposite of the building when the door opened again and a man exited, leaning against the wall and surveying the street on which the house was situated. Well, this was obviously the guard he had missed just a moment prior … Athos suppressed a sigh as he withdrew a bit deeper into the shadows again. He shouldn't have questioned his good fortune even in his own head, it seemed – he would need to take down this man first before he could enter the house and look for d'Artagnan.

***

d'Artagnan made his way back to awareness slowly and painfully as his head throbbed in time with the beating of his heart while his left shoulder provided a bright, insistent counterpoint that burned relentlessly. Keeping his eyes closed, the young man tried to assess his situation and why he was hurting so much. His sling was gone, he noted, and his arms were pulled back, with something encircling and restraining his wrists. He hoped desperately that it was the uncomfortable position and the pull of the weakened muscle on the barely healed injury that was causing the pain and not that the bone had broken again. He did not know if he could deal with even more weeks of enforced inactivity if his injury had been set back that far …

Belatedly, his sluggish mind brought forth the thought that he had more pressing concerns than that, realising that the throbbing in his head had to be due to a blow that had rendered him unconscious and that he was bound hand and foot to a post or something in his back. He opened his eyes a slit, trying not to raise his head but looking through his lashes in the hope that he could catch a glimpse of his captors before they became aware that he was awake.

He was unsuccessful, though, as some sound or movement must have given him away, and a voice to his right said: “Well, well, well, look who's back among the living.” The voice was almost dripping with scorn, and d'Artagnan opened his eyes and turned his head to scowl at its owner.

A second voice, filled with similar disdain, continued: “So nice of you to join us!” The Gascon's head swivelled to the other side as he tried to get a look at all of his captors. There were four of them, standing around him in a loose semi-circle. Even though he had not talked to any of them much, he recognised each of them, identifying them as four of those Porthos had said where his tormentors – Royer, Gros and Larue, Travert. He was not sure if he should be reassured or anxious at being able to identify them. At least there was no one they had not already suspected, giving him the hope that these were the only ones conspiring against him. On the other hand, them showing themselves to him so openly now, with their Musketeer's pauldron proudly displayed on their shoulders, a sight that made him feel slightly sick, did not bode well for him.

He straightened up a bit, noticing with some relief that his improved posture took some of the strain from his shoulders and arms and had the pain in his left shoulder abate slightly. He snorted at the second speaker's words and replied: “You're welcome – I have to say, I'm not impressed with your hospitality, though.”

Travert scowled at him, and his voice was filled with anger rather than scorn when he spoke: “Hold your tongue, boy. You have no business speaking back against us.”

d'Artagnan almost laughed at that. “Oh, I'm sorry if I've offended you, gentlemen. Truly, I could never hope to measure up against such fine men … who knock out people in the streets and keep them captive at some unused house,” he returned, having taken a quick look around the room and finding it nondescript and almost empty, apart from a dilapidated chair and table in a corner.

Travert started forward, and d'Artagnan had the fleeting thought that it might be wise to stop enraging his captors with his cheek, but then, he was not a wise man, was he? However, Larue stretched out an arm across Travert's chest, halting his forward motion. “Don't let him anger you,” he advised. “He is of no consequence, and his words are no more than the yapping of a stray dog.”

d'Artagnan cocked his head to the side, studying their faces. “For thinking me so unimportant, you sure spent a lot of effort and time on me,” he pointed out. “I freely admit that I'm not very flattered and would prefer if you directed your attention elsewhere, though.”

“You low-bred cur,” Travert spat at him. “You are trying to worm your way into our brotherhood when you're no more than a stupid farm boy.”

The Gascon tried to stand even straighter but his bindings prevented it, and he chose to hold his tongue this time. To be frank, he was almost more worried by the dispassionate faces of Gros and Royer who had barely said a word, their eyes on his face without wavering, than by the abuse flowing from Travert's lips.

Larue snorted. “No more clever quips? You might actually have brains somewhere in that head, after all.” d'Artagnan glared at him but the man had turned away from him and was now speaking to the others rather than their captive. “Birds of a feather flock together, so I'm not surprised he connected to the big brute, at least.” He curled his lip in disgust. “I still think we should do something about him, too.” At that, d'Artagnan strained against his bindings with a snarl, wishing he could get his hands on them. It was bad enough that they had gone after him but knowing they looked at Porthos the same way and could be going for his friend when they were finished with him made the calm he was fighting so hard to maintain slip from his grasp. It did little good, though, the ropes holding him fast, and after a moment he sagged back, the pain in his shoulder threatening to take his breath away.

Gros finally uncrossed his arms and straightened. “We've talked about that, Larue,” he said, “the mulatto is too deeply entrenched in the regiment, he and the other two have the Captain's ear. Nothing we can do there.” His voice was smooth and utterly controlled, and d'Artagnan felt a chill rise in him at the coldness in it.

“And you think you'll get away with your actions against me?” he asked aloud, mostly to distract himself from the fear and anger warring inside him. “I may only be a recruit but you're Musketeers! You're supposed to uphold and protect the King's law but you've broken it today by taking me captive.”

Gros took a few steps towards him and backhanded him across the face. “Keep your tongue,” he advised, and his tone of voice had not changed. “We will not tolerate your yapping.”

d'Artagnan did his best to make himself glare defiantly and not squint to set off the way his vision was swimming, licking his lip where it had split from the force of the blow. Fighting down the urge to talk back some more, he tried to think. What could he do? He hoped that Athos was close by. What if he hadn't seen him being taken? Or lost them while following, or had to go back for reinforcements? The thought made loneliness and despair well up in him for a moment but he pushed them away resolutely. He trusted in his friend. But still, he was not here yet, and he had to stall, buy time, figure something out. He could not aggravate the men too much but staying silent might have them move forward with whatever they had planned for him. He did not doubt that it would involve pain and the not-so-slight possibility of his death because you did not capture, bind and beat a man just to let him walk away, so he was not exactly keen on them getting started with it too soon. So, he probably should keep them talking but try not to be too cheeky. Well, good luck with that.

“What is it you will do with me?” he finally asked, trying hard to sound bored and uninterested and as little afraid as possible – because he was. Courage was all well and good but which man could stand bound and weaponless in the middle of men who hated him and not feel afraid? He was brave but not a fool, and young enough that he did not look forward to dying.

The Musketeers exchanged some looks, and Larue replied: “Well, we did consider convincing you that you have no place in the regiment, and then put you on a horse and send you away.” He smirked unpleasantly. “But you're far too stubborn for that, right? Or else you'd have cut your losses and run already.”

d'Artagnan could not suppress a snort. “You mean, because of some mishaps and accidents, a few insults and one threatening note?” he asked, disbelieving. "You must have thought me very weak that this is all it takes for me to abandon my friends and my future as a Musketeer.”

A cloud passed over Larue's face, and he growled but Gros intercepted him, giving him a hard stare. “No matter,” the one who seemed to be the leader of the small group said, “it is my guess that you would not believe us that we were to let you go and do you no further harm. Am I right?”

d'Artagnan gave a careful one-sided shrug with his uninjured shoulder. “You don't have exactly done anything to make me trust you,” he pointed out.

“True,” Gros acquiesced. “And it is probably too late by now. So this is not an option. Take a guess what the alternative is?” d'Artagnan felt a shiver run through him at the man's neutral tone and expression. He might as well discuss how to best get rid of the mice in the stables, instead of how they planned to hurt a fellow human being. He raised his chin a bit higher to stare at the other man without giving him any quarter, choosing not to respond for the moment.

Royer grinned and informed him with great relish: “When we're finished with you, we'll find you a nice, comfortable ditch in which your time in Paris will come to an end.”

“And you think you can simply walk back into the garrison after that as if nothing happened?” The Gascon had to fight hard not to gape at their unconcerned attitude to killing a man just because of … whatever justification they had come up with for their hate.

“Well, one thing is for sure – you won't,” Larue replied almost placidly as he took a step forward, and d'Artagnan's last reserves against the terror that gripped him began to dissolve.

“Wait!” he burst out, and if he sounded desperate, he did no longer care. If Athos was nearby and could listen, he would probably not hold it against him. “Tréville knows about you – Athos and the others, too. If I don't turn up at the garrison tomorrow morning, they will know who's responsible! But if you let me go and don't do me any further harm, you can still escape the hangman's noose.”

Again glances passed between the men, and Larue stepped back, as did Travert. He was gratified to see some uncertainty flicker in their eyes but any relief fled when Gros shook his head, his eyes steel. “There is always a way to explain what happened. You're a hothead and you hate the Red Guards, for example – even if their ranks would be more fitting for a rat like you,” he said, and this time, d'Artagnan did gape. The man must be stark raving mad!

“So let's get to it.” Gros made a step forward towards him, and the Gascon closed his eyes, drawing as deep a breath as his bonds and the pain radiating from his shoulder and through his head allowed him and bracing himself for the pain he knew would come.

***

It had been easy enough to sneak up on Borde and subdue the traitorous Musketeer. Athos bound him with his own belt, removing his weapons, and hid him nearby before he quietly made his way into the house. Not for the first time, he wished Aramis and Porthos were with him – not only for their skills in infiltrating a building but also because he always was his best with them at his side. His time watching over d'Artagnan had been long and lonely, observing the goings-on at the garrison but being apart from it, talking to no-one, and it had left him too much time with his own thoughts, feeling unmoored, and the intentional restriction of his usual coping mechanism had not helped matters.

Be it as it may, he was all d'Artagnan had until Le Beau arrived with reinforcements, and he was determined not to let his youngest brother down. He shook his head to clear it of those thoughts and moved forward in the quiet, dusty hallway. There were voices coming from the room at the end of it, and as he drew nearer, he could distinguish the Gascon's voice from the others which were not as familiar to him but still far too familiar for comfort. Voices he had heard countless times in the garrison's courtyard or the mess or during watch duty at the Palace … Creeping ever closer, he detected a note of worry, edging on fear, in d'Artagnan's voice, and he frowned. He could not recall having heard that tone from his young friend before, not even during the disastrous mission with Vadim. But then, for all his pride, stubbornness and quick temper, d'Artagnan was by no means stupid, and he had to recognise the seriousness of the situation he was in.

Pressing his back against the wall, he inched closer to the open door until he could see the room beyond it. d'Artagnan was bound to a post in the middle of it, facing the men around him. From his position, Athos could only see his side. There was a fresh bruise forming on his cheek, and the position he had been restrained in had to hurt his injured shoulder, but otherwise, he looked to be mostly intact, and there was no weakness in his voice even as the men told him about their plans. Athos' hand gripped the hilt of his sword so tightly that it dug into his palm painfully. Four men, and d'Artagnan bound and helpless – those were not great odds but for how long would he be able to wait for the reinforcements to come? He could not allow it to go too far, and as he heard the men discuss it, he knew there was no hope of a peaceful resolution. How did those men justify what they were doing to a fellow soldier, a fellow human being? Disgust swirled in his belly like sickness. If any of these men left this room alive today, it would only be because he wanted to see them hang, and that was a promise to d'Artagnan and to himself. At the very least, he would make sure that they would not have any place in the Musketeers after this – he had absolutely no doubt that Tréville would not hesitate a moment to ensure this, either. Taking a man captive, beating and threatening to kill him, and in the name of what? Preserving the “purity” of their brotherhood? If he hadn't given himself away with the sound, he would have laughed bitterly. If anything was soiling their brotherhood, it was not the Gascon's heritage.

His frown deepened as d'Artagnan made an obvious last-ditch attempt to stop the men, revealing that the Captain and the three Inseparables were aware of what was going on. For a moment he almost dared to hope that it would work, that they would stop while there was still a chance for a good ending, for all of them … But Gros' words shattered that hope, and Athos knew he was out of options – apart from staying hidden while the others hurt d'Artagnan or worse, and that was not an option at all. He was in motion before he had even let himself finish the thought, letting instinct take over as he drew his sword and pistol. He kicked out at the door leaf, causing it to crash into the wall behind it to distract the men as he took aim at the one opposite the door, barely taking the time to notice who it was and if his shot connected. A few steps inside the room had him closing the distance to the one standing the closest – Royer – and he swung his sword's hilt at the man's head before he had managed to react and draw his weapon, dropping him like a stone. “Drop your weapons and stand down!” he called. “Don't make this worse for yourself than it already is.”

Gros had pulled the punch he had just been about to plunge into d'Artagnan's stomach and turned towards Athos, reaching for his sword while Travert had already drawn his. “Athos,” the man at the front said. “What makes you think you have the right to give us orders?”

Athos stepped forward until he was at d'Artagnan's side, lifting his blade and resting its tip on the pauldron adorning Gros' shoulder. He looked at the other two, too, registering with satisfaction that Larue had a hand clasped to his right upper arm, a dark stain starting to spread over his sleeve beneath it. He could not see how severe the wound was but still felt buoyed by the fact that he had managed to level the field somewhat. “For a start, I think so because I am the only honourable Musketeer in this room,” he replied before casting a small sidelong glance at the young man beside him, “the only one currently wearing a pauldron, at least.” He did not miss the short flash of gratitude in d'Artagnan's dark eyes, nor how the young man raised his chin a bit higher, obviously drawing strength from his presence at his side. To underscore his words, the older Musketeer let the tip of his blade bounce against the fleur-de-lis on Gros' shoulder. “I'll see to it that you won't have this honour for much longer, you have my word.”

Gros sneered and raised his sword, crossing it with Athos' blade and pushing it away from himself. “Big words,” he replied, “and all of that for a whelp from Gascony. The famous Inseparables really aren't what they used to be.”

Athos growled, just about holding onto his self-control to keep himself from simply running the man through. “I would do this for anyone who is at the mercy of men like you,” he said, “but yes, for a boy from Gascony – who's worth more than you'll ever be. Now, will you stand aside?”

The other Musketeer exchanged a glance with his conspirators and shook his head. “No, I don't think we will.” With that, he attacked while Travert came at Athos from the other side. Athos clenched his teeth as he dropped his spent pistol and drew his main gauche, trying to stay between the two men and d'Artagnan to shield the young man from them and keeping Larue in the corner of his eye, hoping that at least Royer would be staying down. He was in trouble now, he knew, because no matter that none of the other three could match his skill with a blade, they had the superior numbers on him. All he could do was hope that he could keep them busy until Le Beau arrived with reinforcements. But even as he turned quickly to avoid Gros' blade stabbing at his side and managed to score a hit slicing into Travert's sword arm, he realised with a feeling of resigned inevitability that Larue had moved, and it was no surprise when the other man's voice came from behind him only a few heartbeats later.

“Drop your weapons, or he dies.”

Athos stopped, stepping back out of reach of Gros and Travert's blades, and turned around. Larue was standing behind the column d'Artagnan was bound to, and while the stain on his sleeve was spreading, the hand holding a knife to the Gascon's throat was steady enough. d'Artagnan was trying to meet his friend's eyes calmly but judging by how his Adam's apple bobbed nervously, it was a calm he did not really feel. Athos understood – the situation had done nothing but spiral out of control for him all day or even longer, and the young man had to be equal parts anxious and furious at his inability to protect himself.

He lowered his weapons but hesitated to let them drop as he mouthed to d'Artagnan: “I'm sorry.” His friend shook his head minutely, drawing in a sharp breath when the motion caused the blade's sharp edge at his throat to bite into his skin and a red, thin line appeared beneath it.

Larue grinned mirthlessly. “Athos,” he called again, “weapons down. I won't tell you again.”

With one last, apologetic look at d'Artagnan, Athos threw down his main gauche and sword. Immediately, one of the others, he could not tell who, stepped up behind him and grabbed his arms, pulling them backwards and holding them in a strong grip behind his back.

“Bind him,” Gros commanded, and he turned his head to see Travert rushing to do as he was bidden with a length of rope. Then, with his arms restrained at his back, he was pushed back until he stood next to d'Artagnan while the three other Musketeers – Royer seemed to still be down for the count – took up position opposite of them.

To his surprise, it was d'Artagnan who spoke up first. “What now?” the Gascon asked. “Do you still think you can walk away from this?” He fixed a hard stare on his tormentors' faces, and Athos felt a rush of admiration at the lad's unrelenting spirit.

“He's right,” he added. “Even if you were deluded enough to believe you could kill one Musketeer and point the blame elsewhere--”

“He's not a Musketeer!” Travert protested, and Athos resisted the urge to roll his eyes at the man's predictability in his spite. He raised his shoulders in a light shrug.

“Fine, you might be deluded enough to kill one man,” he continued, “and think you could escape punishment, but you must see that you no longer have that chance.”

The three men exchanged glances, and Athos tried to catalogue their expressions and stance, gauge their mood. Travert was defiant but increasingly nervous, he decided, Larue looked almost resigned but Gros, who seemed to be their de facto leader, was the hardest to read, his face blank, and he was possibly the most dangerous of the lot.

Indeed, it was the latter who finally spoke: “We could just kill you both.”

Athos felt d'Artagnan stiffen next to him where their arms touched lightly but tried to keep his voice careless, matching Gros' calm tone: “If you do that, you will hang for sure. Captain Tréville would see to that. And you were Musketeers,” he stressed the past tense, deliberately, “you know the Captain. You know Porthos and Aramis. You know that they would not rest until they have found you.” He let his gaze wander over each of them. “But then, given all of this, you don't seem to know the first thing about the Musketeers – about our brotherhood and our honour.”

“Are you sure it is wise to antagonise us?” Gros asked with a raised eyebrow.

“That is not my intention,” Athos replied. “I am merely attempting to point out the consequences to your actions.”

Larue snorted. “Arrogant as always.”

Athos just raised his chin and said: “In any case, you should better be gone soon. Reinforcements are coming.”

The men exchanged heavy looks again, and finally, Gros took a step back, gesturing to the other two to come to his side. Turning away from their captives, the men began to speak with each other in low tones.

Athos slid his gaze sidelong to d'Artagnan who was almost vibrating with tension next to him. “I sent Le Beau back to get help,” he told him. “They'll be along any moment now.”

d'Artagnan smiled weakly. “I hope you're right because I don't want to bet that Gros won't kill us after all,” he replied. “He's ...” He shuddered lightly.

Athos couldn't really disagree, so he only bumped his shoulder into the younger man's to convey his support but did not waste his breath on telling him it would be alright. Given how much of a mess they were in – and he had landed them in it because he had still underestimated the lengths these men would go to – he did not wish to tempt fate.

The three rogue Musketeers turned back to them, and while Larue and Travert strode towards Royer who was still lying motionless, Gros stepped up to them, an expression of careless detachment on his features. Athos felt his soul turn cold at this sight, and even more so when the other man raised the pistol he was hefting in his hand, holding it at its barrel. The next moment, he struck out at d'Artagnan's temple, snapping the young man's head to the side with the force of the blow. “No!” Athos roared as d'Artagnan sagged senselessly against the ropes holding him fast. But as he threw himself forward, Gros turned around and brought the pistol's butt down again. Athos swayed, and though he tried to infuse his limbs with strength and remain standing, darkness rose and pulled him under. His last thought was that he hoped his brothers would forgive him for his failure to protect their youngest.

***

He gasped as awareness flooded back suddenly and violently and he remembered they were in danger. He did not know which danger but his body was readying for a fight before his mind could catch up.

A hand against his chest pushed him down again, keeping him in place rather easily. “Easy there, d'Artagnan,” a deep voice rumbled. “It's all good, you're alright.”

d'Artagnan opened his eyes, squinting at the face above him. “Porthos?” he finally managed, his throat dry and raw. He swallowed and tasted bile, only just managing not to gag.

Porthos smiled as he reached for a cup next to him and supported d'Artagnan's head to let him take a few swallows of water. “Yeah, it's me,” he answered. “Good to see you back. How do you feel?”

d'Artagnan frowned, his head still muddled and hurting, there was a remainder of fear, anxiety, rage, all mixed together still tingling in his blood, and how was Porthos here with him when-- The latter thought sent his heart racing again as he asked: “Wait, you're … you're here, how long have I been out?!”

Porthos mirrored his earlier frown but understanding smoothed it out a few moments later. “Not that long,” he assured him, “Aramis and I were back earlier. It's only been a few hours.”

d'Artagnan breathed a bit lighter until the next thought struck. “Athos?!” he asked, struggling again to sit up, and some part of his mind registered that his left arm was strapped again. The realisation was accompanied by a flash of pain in his shoulder, swiftly joined by another one in his head that made the world go white for a moment. He was dimly aware of Porthos speaking, and strong hands guided him back down on the bed, but he didn't really understand the meaning of the words washing over him. Finally, the pain receded enough for him to open his eyes again, looking up at Porthos' face and finding that Aramis had joined him. Both of his friends looked down on him with obvious concern, and he swallowed to clear his throat and say: “'m alright.”

Porthos snorted “Sure you are,” he grumbled but his hand was gentle as he placed it on d'Artagnan's forehead, running his thumb over the lines of pain that creased it. “Athos is right here, next to you,” he picked up his question from earlier, and Aramis moved to the side to allow him an unimpeded view of his mentor in the bed next to him.

d'Artagnan studied him for a moment – Athos was obviously asleep or unconscious and rather pale, but he could not see any injuries. “He's alright?” he finally asked roughly.

Aramis smiled at him, placing a gentle hand on his shoulder. “He'll be fine,” he assured him. “He was awake earlier, but his head pained him some, so I made him take a pain draught. Speaking of which,” he moved towards a nearby table to pick up a cup waiting there, “I assume you're in quite some pain yourself, so I'd like you to drink this.”

Immediately, d'Artagnan protested: “No!” Seeing the displeased looks the two older men gave him, he quickly amended: “I won't pretend that I'm not hurting, and I'd welcome some relief but please – I want to know what happened first.”

His two friends exchanged looks, and Aramis shrugged, replacing the cup on the table, and returning to his bedside. “That is your right, I guess,” he acquiesced. “How much do you remember?” He fixed the young Gascon with an inquisitive stare that told d'Artagnan that he was using the opportunity to assess his state of mind.

“Would you mind helping me sit up first?” he asked – he wasn't sure how his head would react to a change in elevation but he didn't relish the thought of talking to his friends while flat on his back.

Aramis shook his head energetically. “Absolutely not,” he replied. “You've suffered a severe head injury, d'Artagnan. You're on strict bed rest until I'm sure that you will not pass out at the slightest unfortunate movement.”

“But--” he protested, turning his gaze towards Porthos, but the hard expression on the dark face told him not to expect any help from that quarter. “It's just sitting up,” he said nevertheless, stubbornly.

Aramis placed a hand on his upper arm, letting his thumb run over his skin in soothing circles. “I apologise for maybe being overcautious, my friend, but the previous times, even the slightest movements had consequences that were quite miserable,” he explained. “Though admittedly, you were nowhere as lucid as you are now. Still, I'd rather not have a repeat performance.” Porthos was nodding his head decisively to his words.

d'Artagnan frowned. “Previous times?”

Another look was exchanged, and he found himself slightly annoyed with their silent conversation – he had become better at reading them but right now he was too tired and in pain and confused to even make the attempt. “Ah, it's no wonder you don't remember that,” Aramis said smoothly. “You've woken up before but you were not really … well, entirely there. Mostly, you woke up confused and thinking you were still in danger, tried to move and ended up passing out as soon as you were done throwing up.” His voice was light but d'Artagnan could see the worry in the dark eyes.

“Definitely an unpleasant experience for all of us,” Porthos rumbled, his big hand heavy on d'Artagnan's chest, “so I'm with 'Mis, you better lay still for a while until your head is no longer threatenin' to fly apart, which I'm guessin' it's feelin' like right now, eh?” 

d'Artagnan felt his cheeks heat in embarrassment at the thought of vomiting all over his friends while they were trying to take care of him, and Porthos was not entirely wrong about the headache that was building up to a crescendo behind his eyes the longer he was awake. “Pretty much,” he allowed and let his head sink back against the cushion. “I'm sorry.”

“Nothing to be sorry for,” Aramis reassured him. “We're pleased to see you come back to your senses – as much of that as you possess, at least.” He smirked. “Just lay still, and we will talk until you're ready for your medicine and some more sleep. And I promise the next time you'll wake up, everything will go much more smoothly.” d'Artagnan nodded, and the medic prompted: “So, what do you remember from before?”

“Uhm,” he made while he resisted the urge to close his eyes to think because he was not sure he would not fall asleep again the moment he did that, “I was going home to the Bonacieux' when – someone hit me over the head.” He attempted to raise his hand to the back of his head that seemed to react to the memory and intensified its throbbing, but Aramis easily held his arm in place, nodding for him to continue.

“Came around tied to a post and Gros and the others standing around me, gloating,” he did just that, trying to keep his voice level even as he recalled Travert's angry ranting and Gros' terrifying detachment. “I tried to keep them talking, in the hope that Athos or someone else had seen and followed. For the most part, it worked for a while but finally, they told me about their plans for me.” He closed his eyes after all, swallowed painfully. “They wanted to kill me,” he whispered, “and for what? For not being a noble's son, for being from a poorer part of the country, for … just because I'm me--”

Aramis' hand around his arm tightened until his grip became almost painful. “Calm, d'Artagnan, breathe,” he heard him say, and it took a few moments to not only hear the words but also to understand them and to actually do as instructed. Porthos' hand was still on his chest, a warm weight, his thumb rubbing circles against his skin, and he latched onto the contact, using it to ground him. When he opened his eyes again, his friends were watching him, their dark eyes shining in the candlelight.

“I'm alright,” he croaked, even if his heart was sitting like a stone inside his chest. Porthos gave him a sad smile and shook his head. “You're not,” he replied, “but it's alright. You don't have to be.”

d'Artagnan looked away, unable to bear the confusing mixture of shame, pain and thankfulness this smile on Porthos' face woke in him. “Well, then … Gros stepped forward, and I thought he'd do it, but then Athos was there. He took out one of them, shot Larue, I think, and fought the others but one of them came around to my back and held a blade to my throat,” he picked up his report again, fighting to regain control of his emotions. “They forced him to give up his weapons, bound him, and … they were all but willing to kill us both.” He had to pause a moment before he could be overwhelmed again. The other two men did not speak but neither of them had taken away the hands touching him, soothing him with small motions. “Then someone, I think Gros, hit me in the head, and that's all I remember until now.” He let himself sag against the mattress beneath him, surprised at how much the short story had exhausted him – though it was mostly the storm of emotions that accompanied it, not its telling, he supposed. “What happened after that? When did you get there?” he asked.

Aramis looked back at the cot with Athos' sleeping form for a moment, then turned around again and answered: “I'm afraid we don't know much about what transpired after that. Athos was knocked out right after you, so he could not add much. We got there shortly afterwards, I suppose – Porthos and I had just come back, were just off our horses and in the courtyard still, as a matter of fact, when Le Beau came tearing into the garrison, calling for Tréville and reinforcements. We got to where you were held as quickly as we could but found it empty save for Athos and you, both of you unconscious.” He ran an unsteady hand through his curls. “Lord, I hope to never experience anything like that again. I'm thankful that something stayed their hand from actually taking your life but … you shouldn't have had to go through that.”

“Damn right he shouldn't have!” Porthos somehow managed the feat to both explode and do so quietly – even though he was glaring daggers at where Athos was laying, he did not rouse the sleeping man, and d'Artagnan was also thankful to him for keeping his voice low so it did not further exacerbate the throbbing in his head. “What the hell was Athos thinkin', riskin' you like that? Le Beau even told me he said you'd want him to, as if you'd want bein' bound and beaten and nearly killed!”

d'Artagnan winced and looked at the large Musketeer warily. He knew this man would never hurt him but it was instinctual to react to the anger rolling off him in waves. Noting his reaction, Porthos' expression turned apologetic, and he took a deep breath. “Sorry,” he murmured.

The Gascon put a hand on Porthos', still on his chest. “It's alright,” he said. “But Athos wasn't wrong.” At the sounds of protest this drew from both of his friends, he raised his shoulder in a lopsided shrug. “Well, I certainly didn't want to be at the mercy of these men, sure. But … something had to give. Waiting for them to act like I had to since the “training accident” … It was killing me,” he admitted in a low voice. “I don't know how much longer I would have been able to go on like that.”

Porthos looked down, chagrined. “'m sorry, d'Artagnan,” he said. “I've been so intent on protectin' you, keepin' you safe, that I didn't think about what it must have cost you. You're not the kind of man to just sit around passively and lettin' others protect you. You have my apologies.”

“And mine,” Aramis agreed.

d'Artagnan made to shake his head but aborted it after a moment – bad idea. “There's nothing to apologise for,” he said. “Just … don't be angry with Athos, alright? It could have gone better, sure, I should have managed to keep them talking long enough for help to come, I'm sorr-” He broke off with a yelp when Porthos suddenly pinched him, hard. “Porthos!” Aramis called, sounding scandalised.

The large man immediately rubbed the reddened skin apologetically but he scowled at the young man nevertheless. “Don't you dare apologise, lad!” he said. “If we don't get to apologise, then neither do you. Not you, you're the least at fault in this mess!”

Aramis chuckled. “Alright, I agree, but still, was that necessary?” Porthos turned his glare on the marksman who held up his hands in a placating gesture.

d'Artagnan couldn't help it, he chuckled a bit, too. “Got it, Porthos. No more apologies, I promise.” He patted his friend's hand. “The important thing is, we got out of it more or less alright. Too bad they were gone when you got there.”

The two Musketeers exchanged another glance, and this time, Porthos grinned, something dangerous lurking in his expression. “Well, that's not entirely true,” he said. At the young man's confused look, he explained: “Turns out they forgot something, courtesy of our friend over there.” He motioned over to Athos. “He took down Borde outside where he was standing guard, tied him up. Seems they didn't find out where he went to, or maybe they didn't care. Either way, we found him and took him in. He's in the Chatelet now and is all too glad to tell everyone what the others have done – o'course he's mighty innocent himself.” He snorted contemptuously. “He might be lucky yet and not be punished too severely since he wasn't directly involved, just standing guard. But as a Musketeer, he's finished, and so are the others. And if they ever get caught, they'll most certainly face the noose for takin' you hostage and their clear intent to kill you. You don't have any more to fear from them.”

“That's good.” d'Artagnan let himself relax a bit. “That … that's something, at least.”

Aramis added: “Tréville will address the regiment at muster tomorrow to make sure that everyone knows what happened and to make clear what the consequences will be if anything like that happens again.” He snickered. “I have no doubt you'll be able to hear every word in here. He's rather, let's call it cross, about the whole thing.”

Porthos shook his head. “Can't say I fault him for that,” he said gruffly. “How many times does somethin' like that have to happen until they finally get it?” He made as if to stand but Aramis reached across d'Artagnan to lay a hand on his arm, stilling the motion. Any trace of amusement was gone from the marksman's usual jovial expression as he looked at both of his friends in turn. “I'm sorry, both of you,” he said quietly. “I wish I could tell you this won't happen again, that those were the last of our comrades to look at any man and see only his skin or his background. But I fear that this is not a promise I can give, nor can the Captain. The only thing he and I can promise is that you won't have to face it alone – your brothers will always be at your side to help. Even if,” he smirked, “we might not always think their way to do it the best.” He threw a meaningful glance from Athos to Porthos, who smiled and shrugged his shoulders in return.

d'Artagnan found himself smiling, too, warmed by the sympathy and affection colouring Aramis' words – and particularly the word “brothers” which gave him hope that these three men might see him the same he had started to see them. Family. “With you at my side, I think I can withstand it. Though I hope the next time is a long time coming,” he said softly. Then, wincing, he looked down on his restrained arm and added: “How long will it be this time, Aramis?”

The question served to break the emotional mood, as he had intended, and Aramis patted his shoulder, allowing the redirection. “You'll be stuck in bed for a few days, I'm afraid. That severe a concussion means a lot of dizziness and pain upon movement, and you'll tire quickly for a while. Other than that, you've been lucky – it's mostly bruising, and by God's grace, your collarbone hasn't broken again. It might have set your recovery from that back a bit but not completely.”

The Gascon breathed a sigh of relief. “That's very good; I don't think I could have stood going through that again,” he grumbled.

“Nor could the rest of us,” Aramis said, a grin tugging at the corners of his mouth. “You don't handle inactivity well, my friend.”

Porthos guffawed at that. “Truer words have never been spoken,” he agreed. d'Artagnan smiled ruefully, conceding the point.

Aramis got up and retrieved the cup with his medicine, returning to the bed. “Alright,” he said resolutely, “I've been patient but I can see you're in pain. So you'll take your medicine and sleep now, and when you wake, you'll feel a good deal better, I'm sure. Hopefully, Athos will be awake again then, too.”

d'Artagnan considered arguing for a moment but he could not deny that his head was pounding, and his questions had been answered, for the most part – and he had promised Aramis he would take the pain draught. So he nodded his consent and grudgingly accepted Porthos' help in raising his head to drink, grimacing at the unpleasant taste. The big man lowered his head back down onto the bed gently, and Aramis stroked his hair affectionately. “Sleep,” he murmured. “We will be here when you wake.”

That was the last thought that followed him as sleep pulled him under again: His brothers were here, and with them at his side, he could face all things, were they big or small.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There you have it! I hope you enjoyed :). Thank you to everyone who visited and read, left kudos or commented! I've been very happy about the lovely reception for my first Muskie story. Hopefully, it won't be the only one!

**Author's Note:**

> The next chapter will be up in a few days.
> 
> If you liked it, show me some love with kudos and reviews :)?


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